Mischief and Mayhem
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: After an unusually difficult day with the triplets, Roarke and Christian conspire to remind Leslie that she, too, made plenty of mistakes. Follows 'Queens Past and Present'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _With thanks to Mishee for the idea behind this story. :) Included here is an AU version of "The Devil and Mr. Roarke/Kid Corey Rides Again/Ziegfeld Girls", which first aired as a 90-minute episode on October 17, 1981 and starred Roddy McDowall, Barbi Benton, Audrey Landers, Arte Johnson and Jack Elam. (In syndication the "Ziegfeld Girls" fantasy was edited from the program; the scenes from that fantasy are thanks to the audiocassette tape I made when this episode first aired.)

* * *

_§ § § -- November 14, 2005

"It must be Monday," Leslie grumbled in disgust, hurling Tobias' third outfit of the day into the hamper in the little laundry alcove. "That's the only explanation for this."

Christian looked up from a computer magazine he'd gotten in that day's mail. "What? Good grief, my Rose, you look ready to sink a ship."

"Maybe that way I'd get out some of my frustration," Leslie growled. "I'm going to ask Rogan to come out here and plant something big and tough in that damn mud puddle we get in the corner of the backyard every time it rains. That might discourage Tobias from playing in it. I swear, he's magnetically attracted to it."

Christian laughed. "Little children love mud, Leslie, that's all there is to it."

"Well, as if that weren't enough, he went and lost a couple of my rings in that very same puddle. Not my wedding set, thankfully, or he might not be among the living just now. I hope that curio cabinet's locked up good and tight, or next thing you know one of those figurines you prize so highly might go missing." She stalked back into the living room while Christian stared at her, half surprised, half amused. "And if you think Tobias is the only one who's driving me crazy, think again. Susanna keeps tearing down the safety gate at the top of the stairs—you're going to have to have a good look at it before she takes a disastrous tumble. She won't leave it alone; and furthermore, she's got a mean streak going. Every time Karina picks up something, Susanna takes it away from her just to hear her scream."

"Small children are selfish," Christian managed to put in.

"And then there's Karina herself," Leslie plowed on as if he hadn't spoken. "The bedroom's covered with toys—I can't take a step in there without practically breaking my foot on something, and if I try to put things away, she takes them right back out and tosses them over her shoulder again. And she desperately needs a diaper change and has for the last hour, but she refuses to let either me or Ingrid get hold of her long enough to do it. She stinks to the moon and back, and even Susanna and Tobias are holding their noses around her now. What if she gets a rash from wearing that filthy diaper all day?"

Christian began to laugh, unable to help himself. "Are you saying this child a third your size and a sixth your weight is able to elude two grown women?"

She planted a hand on one hip and glared at him. "May I remind you that there are two other small children contributing to the problem? There you are sitting there shutting out the world, while Ingrid and I are chasing Karina in between trying to keep Tobias clean and honest, and Susanna from killing herself. And the worst of it is, it's not even lunchtime yet!" She stepped swiftly and deftly around the coffee table and snatched the magazine out of her startled husband's hands before he realized what she meant to do. "The only way we're going to even the score around here is if you get on Ingrid's and my team."

Christian lifted his hands in surrender and then pushed himself to his feet. "All right, all right, calm down, Leslie. Where are they now?"

"Ingrid's trying to corral them, but I don't hold out a lot of hope. I just changed Tobias into clean clothes for the third time today, and I don't particularly care to spend my afternoon repeating the morning's antics. They're lively all right, but they haven't been this fractious in ages. What's getting into those little demons?"

"Come on," Christian said, taking her hand and leading her across the room toward the stairs. "First of all, let's round up said little demons and try to calm them down, so you and Ingrid have a chance to get ahead of the game a bit. And then you need to do some calming down yourself, my Rose." They climbed the stairs as he spoke, and she let out a loud snort that made Christian chuckle. "It can't possibly be that bad."

"Wanna bet?" she retorted sourly. As if to back her up, a piercing scream assaulted their ears just as they topped the steps, and Christian winced while Leslie hissed a couple of choice curses through her teeth and stomped down the hallway to the triplets' room. A second scream followed the first and then shrieking sobs, and both parents crowded into the children's room at the same time. Ingrid stood in the middle of the floor, holding Karina by both arms, while the screeching child dangled a foot or so off the floor, struggling to be let down. Meanwhile, Tobias and Susanna were involved in an energetic and noisy tug-of-war over a hapless stuffed animal.

"I caught her, Your Highnesses," Ingrid said breathlessly in her own tongue, hefting Karina easily into her arms despite the little girl's manic squirming and twisting.

"Thank the fates!" Leslie groaned and relieved the young servant of her wriggling bundle. "You come here, young lady—it's about time you got that nasty, smelly diaper off!"

"No, Mommy, no, no, nooooo!" Karina wailed, kicking with all her energy. Grimly her mother carried her to the changing table while Ingrid scuttled ahead of her to provide the supplies Leslie needed so that Karina couldn't get away.

Christian laughed and crossed the room to halt the altercation between Susanna and Tobias. "Enough, you two! Play with something else."

"Mine!" shouted Tobias instantly. It was his favorite word, Christian and Leslie had learned, to their weary sorrow.

"No!" Susanna yelled, and before Christian could stop her she had reached over and smacked the side of her brother's head for all she was worth. Tobias screamed, so loudly and sharply that Christian slammed both hands over his ears and gritted his teeth, while Ingrid cringed and Leslie squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she dared take hands off Karina long enough to protect her ears. In any case, his father's reaction gave Tobias more than enough time to whack his sister right back, screeching even as he did, and Susanna's voice instantly joined the horrific cacophony. Leslie clenched her jaw and tugged Karina's pants off, trying her utmost to ignore her children's shrieking.

It took her and Ingrid combined about twice as long as usual to get Karina into a clean diaper and a fresh pair of overalls, which didn't match her shirt as Ingrid pointed out; but Leslie was past caring, so fed up was she. "Look at this!" she scolded a sobbing Karina, holding up the reeking diaper she'd finally removed from the child. "This is yucky! Ick! Gross! Nasty! Shame on you, Karina Skye, this could have made your skin itchy and sore, don't you know that?"

"No, Leslie, she doesn't know that, and I know you're aware of it," Christian made the mistake of admonishing her.

Leslie exploded. "For crying out loud, Christian Enstad, I do know that! Can't I even let off a little steam around here?" She plunked the soiled diaper onto the changing table and went on with her diatribe. "I've just plain had it up to here with all this crap, and you don't have the right to say a thing, since you pretty much just sat there all morning leaving me and Ingrid to deal with it! Well, maybe now you'll get the full gist of being father of three little brats who don't even grasp the idea that they're doing wrong, so that they'll just keep right on doing it! _Oooooooohhh!!"_ She swiped the diaper off the changing table and slammed it into the bucket reserved for holding such things, then lifted Karina off the table and set her on the floor before turning to Susanna and Tobias and hefting up the nearest child. "That was a bad thing to do, Susanna Shannon, shame on you! No hitting!"

"Mine," Susanna bawled, pointing at the stuffed polar bear that lay on the floor at Christian's feet.

"Nobody's," Leslie corrected sharply. "And Tobias, that was bad of you too!"

"Leslie…" Christian began.

She thrust Susanna at him. "Don't even start! I can't stand any more of this!" With that she turned and stalked out of the room, for some reason slamming the door behind her. The noise made all three triplets renew their shrieking and wailing, and Christian threw Ingrid one shocked glance before trying to calm his children down.

By lunchtime a little more than an hour later, everyone was subdued; the triplets ate in silence, faces still a little blotchy from crying, hair and clothes a bit mussed. Leslie was clearly still steaming a bit; Christian essayed the occasional wary glance at her but said nothing. Ingrid virtually tiptoed around the kitchen.

Finally Leslie finished her lunch and propped her chin in her fist, surveying her children with bewildered disbelief. "What happened to my little angels?" she murmured to no one in particular. "I haven't seen it get that bad for months."

For a moment no one spoke; then Christian inquired very dryly, "Will I get my head bitten off if I attempt to answer that?"

She sighed without taking her gaze off the triplets. "I'm just trying to understand what went wrong today. Maybe it's just Monday, like I said."

"Well, that I don't know about, but I ought to tell you something about these so-called 'little angels'. If you ask Mariki, or Haruko Miyamoto, or perhaps even Mr. Roarke, you might find they're not as angelic as you think they are." At her look, he raised an eyebrow. "Don't forget, Leslie, you're not with them every moment of every day. Undoubtedly while you're doing that weekend job you so dearly love, Haruko finds herself dealing with the babies' blue funks and black snits on a regular basis. I'm sure Ingrid's seen her share of those things too. And what about when we left them here with Mr. Roarke while we were in Lilla Jordsö for Briella's wedding back in August? I'm sure he put up with quite a bit more than he might have been prepared to deal with, even from three toddlers."

"Maybe so. I have no doubt that raising me didn't even remotely prepare him for what caring for little kids would be like. I was older and better behaved."

His silence stretched out long enough that she turned to him and saw him visibly struggling not to laugh. When he caught her scrutiny, however, he went ahead and let it out. "For fate's sake, Leslie, you must be joking!"

"But Christian, Father didn't know me as a small child, and I never threw a temper tantrum like that one," Leslie protested.

Chortling, Christian remarked, "I think you're looking back through rose-colored glasses, as it were. Come on now, you can't honestly be trying to tell me you were a saint all through your childhood, whether it was while your parents were still alive or after you came to live with Mr. Roarke. Never once threw a tantrum? Never got into any trouble?"

"I didn't say that," Leslie protested. "I just said I never acted like the triplets did all this morning, that's all."

"I'm sure if your mother were here, she'd beg to differ," Christian said, still chuckling. "Listen, while you were out back looking for those rings Tobias lost, Mr. Roarke called and asked if we'd like to bring the children over for dinner this evening. I accepted, since I figured you'd welcome a break, and Tobias and Karina and Susanna could run around his yard under Mariki's watchful eye and work off some energy." He grinned as another thought occurred to him. "Besides, there aren't any mud puddles at Mr. Roarke's house for Tobias to wallow in like an aspiring hog."

Leslie finally laughed a little. "Well, that's one thing anyway. I'm glad you did." She peered suspiciously at him. "But I see a little gleam in your eye. What's up your sleeve?"

"I intend to ask him for proof that you weren't the childhood saint you seem to think you were," Christian told her, grinning from ear to ear. "I think your memory could use a little refreshing, and I'm in the mood for some entertainment."

She narrowed her eyes and playfully shook a fist at him. "Ooooh, you. And I'll bet, just to complete my humiliation, you and Father are going to make me tell about them."

Christian smirked. "Why not?" He laughed and relented when she rolled her eyes. "Well, maybe Mr. Roarke will consent to relate one or two stories at least. Either way, I'm looking forward to it."

‡ ‡ ‡

And that was how Christian and Leslie found themselves relaxing in Roarke's study around mid-afternoon. Mondays were slow on the island, and today was no exception. The usual errands had been completed and the bungalows cleaned, and for now there was little to do, so Roarke had decided to give himself a few hours' respite. He took in his daughter's and son-in-law's faces with amusement. "I understand it was quite a hectic morning at your house," he remarked with interest.

"That may be an understatement, Mr. Roarke," Christian said and outlined their problems with the triplets. "Leslie found herself at a loss as to what had made them so destructive, and the next thing I knew she was claiming she'd never been like that."

"Well," said Roarke, chuckling, "I would have to agree, I have never seen Leslie perform the sort of antics you describe Karina, Tobias and Susanna having done…but, before you become too self-satisfied, my dear daughter, perhaps I should gently remind you of a few missteps you took through the years. And one of them occurred within a month of your initial arrival on the island. Do you remember my first scolding?"

She stilled and let her gaze lose focus, trying to recall the event to which Roarke referred and in the end, failing. "No, which one do you mean?"

"Do you remember the very first weekend during which I allowed you to accompany me and Tattoo to the plane dock in order to greet our guests?" At her blank look: "The woman who had given up her twin son and daughter for adoption and wanted to attend their thirtieth birthday party, and the man who wanted to trap a ghost to prove that his guide to doing just that wasn't pure fiction?"

Her face cleared then. "Oh, oh, oh…yeah, I remember that now." She tipped her head aslant and peered at him. "What'd I do? Did I mess up something, or what?"

Roarke grinned. "Not during the weekend itself, for the simple reason that you were so brand-new to the island and my business that I allowed you to do no more than observe, and accompany Tattoo on a few mundane errands." Christian laughed and Leslie gave him a dirty look without any true malice. "No, in fact, it happened after our guests had left and you had gone to school for the day. Does that jog your memory at all?"

That was when it finally hit her, and she wondered how red she must be turning. "Oh yeah…that," she said in a very small voice.

Again Christian laughed, and Roarke afforded him an amused glance. "Go ahead and tell him about it, Leslie."

"I knew you were going to make me humiliate myself," she grumbled, aware of her father's grin. "Fine, all right then. I'd been in school just a week and had become friends with Michiko, Myeko and Lauren, and we always ate lunch together, from the start. When Father started taking me with him and Tattoo to greet their guests after the end of my first school week, I was so excited and fascinated, I just couldn't stand not to share that excitement with everybody. So…"


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- March 5, 1979

Going through the lunch line seemed to take forever, Leslie thought; she was bursting to talk about her incredible weekend with her new friends, and it was all she could do not to push her way to the front of the line so she could start talking. Finally she did make it through and almost ran back to their table with her tray, glad the others had already sat down and were waiting for her. "You sure look excited," Lauren remarked. "Was your weekend that great?"

"It was fabulous," Leslie said eagerly. "You won't believe it—I almost didn't. Mr. Roarke and Tattoo let me come with them to the plane dock and greet their guests, and I even got to watch Mr. Roarke fulfill their fantasies!"

"No kidding, really?" Myeko asked, eyes popping.

"Yeah! I mean, after I first got here and he helped me break the curse on my family, he said maybe I could help him and Tattoo with the fantasies on the weekends. I was afraid he was just saying that, you know how adults are…so I asked him if he really would do it, and he said he thought it'd be a great way to earn an allowance."

"Neat idea," Lauren said.

"What kind of fantasies did he grant?" Michiko asked curiously.

"Well, there was this lady who gave up her twin son and daughter for adoption—she wanted to be at their birthday party, just once, 'cause she never saw them again after they got adopted. They turned 30 this weekend. The other one was even better—this guy wrote a book about ghostbusting, and he came off sounding like a real authority about it, except for one thing—he'd never actually busted a ghost. So he wanted Mr. Roarke to provide him with a real ghost he could bust, just to prove his book was legit."

"Wow," her friends uttered, looking at one another with interest. "So," Myeko added, "did he get one?"

"Well, sort of. It turned out it was just this character playing pranks and trying to discredit the proprietress of that rich-girls' school that's closing down," Leslie said. "But he fell in love with the proprietress and she left the island with him. So even if he didn't really bust a ghost, he got something a lot better."

"Really cool," Lauren said, and Michiko and Myeko nodded. "So are you gonna be backstage for all Mr. Roarke's fantasies from now on?"

Leslie shrugged. "I hope so. At least, he said I could."

"Cool!" her friends exclaimed, and Leslie grinned, finally feeling as though she had something to contribute to their lunchtime conversations. Mondays would be a lot less crummy, she thought, now that she could regale her friends with these stories.

When she returned to the main house, Roarke was at the desk trying to catch up on the accounting he never had time for other than on Mondays. He looked up as she came in. "Hello, Leslie, how was your day in school?" he inquired.

"Not too bad for a Monday," she replied, dropping her books into one of the club chairs in front of his desk and sitting down in the other. "I have homework in only one subject, and I think I did pretty well on a science test, but I won't know till tomorrow."

"Good for you," said Roarke warmly.

"And lunch was great too. I finally really had something to talk to my friends about. I told them all about what a fantastic weekend I had," Leslie said enthusiastically.

That seemed to freeze him; he paused, then focused on her with a sudden odd quality in his gaze. "What exactly did you tell them?"

Uneasily she said, "Well, I just told them a little bit about the fantasies, and how I get to be in on them a little bit now…" She trailed off, seeing the growing disapproval on her new guardian's face. Her gut squeezed in that old familiar panic she'd always gotten when her late father discovered she'd done something she shouldn't have. His wrath had been something to behold; and while she'd enjoyed it whenever Kelly deliberately provoked it, as she so deftly did, it had been entirely another story when it was directed at her. She had no reason to believe this man was any different. "I messed up, didn't I?" she asked in a tiny voice. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Roarke, whatever I did…"

Roarke straightened up from the desk and then sat back in the chair, looking relaxed but wearing a stern expression. "Did you have permission to tell anyone else about those fantasies, Leslie?"

Leslie squirmed in her chair and hunched into herself, barely able to meet his gaze. "N-no," she admitted, barely audible to herself, never mind him.

But he heard her. "Perhaps in part it was my fault; I should have advised you of this before we began," he said, half to himself, "although I didn't expect to have a reason to do so. Nevertheless, I'll tell you now: it is my strict and unbreachable policy to uphold my guests' privacy. Their reasons for coming here are their own, no matter how exotic or glamorous or even peculiar they may appear to be. Every person's private fantasy is legitimate and sacred to that person, and everyone deserves to have their dreams brought to life in confidence and security. What happens here on Fantasy Island does not go beyond our borders. I don't discuss my business with anyone—not even other islanders, at least those who are not directly in my employ. I want you to remember that from now on."

She felt like the Incredible Shrinking Kid. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," she whispered helplessly, letting her head fall forward. "I…I promise I'll never do it again." She began to wish she had never opened her mouth at lunch. Now her friends were going to expect to hear about her weekend adventures every Monday at school, and all she'd be able to tell them was that her guardian had said she had to keep it a secret! "Is…is it okay if I go up and do my homework?" she mumbled, wanting nothing more than to get out from under his disapproving stare.

"Yes, very well, Leslie," he agreed, and she seized her books and fled up the stairs as fast as her feet would take her. She quietly closed the door to her room, toed off her shoes and shoved them in the closet, and sat at the small desk, trying to concentrate on her English grammar homework. Fortunately the subject was easy for her and she was able to make short work of it, despite her inability to keep her mind on what she was doing. She dreaded going down for supper; by then she suspected Roarke would have some horrible punishment waiting for her—maybe even forbidding her to help with the fantasies! She curled up in the window seat and stared unseeingly out, certain she'd never truly fit in here. She missed her mother and sisters more than ever, and over and over again had to battle back the tears she had been conditioned by Michael Hamilton never to shed.

At supper she was subdued and quiet, eating what was on her plate without joining in the conversation, waiting for Roarke's verdict to crash down on her head. Maybe if she ate fast enough, she could get away and back to her room before he remembered…

Halfway through the meal, Tattoo asked, "Leslie, why aren't you talking? Don't tell me you got laryngitis from somebody at school."

Leslie glanced up at him and tried to smile, but failed utterly. "No, I'm okay," she said and hurriedly turned her attention back to her plate.

"If you're okay, then why do you look like somebody beat you up?" Tattoo wanted to know. "Something's wrong, you ought to tell us about it."

She dared not look at Roarke. "I don't want to talk about it." With that she huddled over her plate, desperately wishing Tattoo would just pretend she wasn't there.

Suddenly she heard Roarke chuckle from the other end of the table. "She committed a minor breach of etiquette at school today, when she told her friends about her weekend and described our guests' fantasies to them."

"Oh, I see," Tattoo drawled thoughtfully. After a moment he asked, "What exactly did you say to them, Leslie?"

There was something sympathetic in his tone of voice that gave her a slim thread of hope. Looking up at him, she said pleadingly, "I just kind of summarized the fantasies and a little bit about how one of them ended. I didn't tell them anyone's names or anything like that, honest." She bit her lip. "I thought it'd be…exciting. I don't like just sitting there like some dopey moron while they're talking about stuff at lunch. I'm so new I don't know anything yet…I don't know where the girls hang out on the weekends or whatever. I just wanted to be able to join in the conversation."

"Hey, that's only natural," Tattoo said, nodding. He looked at Roarke, who had been watching in a slightly bemused silence. "So how were you planning to punish her, boss?"

"_Punish_ her?" echoed Roarke with real surprise. "I had no such thing in mind. I merely explained to her my privacy policy with regard to my guests, and she agreed not to speak of it anymore. The matter is closed, as far as I am concerned."

"But she didn't really say that much—you heard her. Come on, boss, have a heart. Leslie's brand-new here and she's just trying to fit in with her new friends. She says she didn't give out any names or other details, just explained what the fantasies were."

"Tattoo, you know full well that privacy is a paramount concern in a business such as mine," Roarke said reprovingly.

"Oh, I know that," Tattoo said, a trace of impatience in his voice. "But these are a bunch of girls. What are they gonna do with that kind of stuff? All they want is to hear how Leslie spent her weekend. You see what I mean? It's not the people they're interested in, it's the fantasies. And I bet they're more interested in how the fantasies come to life than in why the guests want them."

Roarke stared at him. "Tattoo…"

"Boss, seriously. They're teenage girls, not government spies!" Tattoo exclaimed.

Leslie, slightly encouraged by his unexpected defense, spoke up timidly. "I wouldn't tell anyone except my friends, Mr. Roarke, and I can trust them not to blab. And it's like Tattoo said, it's really the fantasies, not the people."

Roarke looked back and forth between the two for a moment, then suddenly started to chuckle resignedly. "So this is how it's to be, is it, then? The two of you ganging up on me?" Tattoo just grinned unrepentantly, and Roarke finally laughed outright. "Perhaps you have a valid point, my friend. Very well, Leslie, you may tell your friends about your weekends—but no more than you told them today at school. And I think it's a good idea if you let them know that I prefer they not talk about it with anyone else they know, either at school or at home. Just tell them it's a strict rule I have, and they will understand."

"There you go," said Tattoo cheerfully, patting Leslie's arm. "That way the boss is the bad guy, and you're off the hook."

"Tattoo…" Roarke said warningly, and Leslie giggled, relief flooding her. Spirits back up once more, she resumed eating her meal.

§ § § -- November 14, 2005

"And every Monday after that," Leslie concluded, "up till the last week right before our graduation, I told the girls about my weekends. That's all there was to it."

Christian laughed. "I just find it interesting that you got into such trouble within two weeks of your arrival here. Was that a pattern?"

"No," Leslie shot back defensively, then snapped her mouth closed, seeing the enormous amusement on Roarke's and Christian's faces. "Oh, brother, I've really created a monster now, haven't I. You won't quit till every stupid thing I did between the ages of thirteen and twenty has been hung out to dry."

"Oh, we won't go quite that far," Roarke assured her. "Otherwise we'd be here till tomorrow afternoon." He chuckled at Leslie's dirty look, which this time she meant wholeheartedly. "But that was just the first of many scrapes that she managed to get herself into. Fortunately most of them were minor, but there was one incident I found it quite difficult to overlook. I'm sure you know which one I refer to, Leslie."

She tensed in spite of herself; the memory was still a sore spot even a quarter-century later. "The time-travel incident?"

"The very one," Roarke said with a nod. He saw her wince and let out a laugh. "Perhaps it will help lessen the sting you apparently still feel if you tell Christian about it yourself, since after all I'm sure he'll want to know just what you saw."

Leslie sighed. "It wasn't even worth it," she muttered, and Roarke laughed again.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Christian urged, "tell me about it."

§ § § -- September 6, 1980

"And this guest may hold a bit of interest for you, Leslie," Roarke introduced their second fantasizing guest of the weekend. "Her name is Amy Olsen, and she currently lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico; but she grew up in Susanville, California, and it is her hope to return to her senior year of high school there and revisit what she says were the best memories she has ever had."

Leslie stared at the blonde, Scandinavian-looking woman who stepped off the dock in a pair of impossibly high heels, daintily holding a large drink glass in one hand. Amy Olsen was quite tall; her hair gleamed buttercup-yellow in the late-summer sun, and she was clad in an elegant, tailored and undoubtedly very expensive skirt, blouse and blazer. "She grew up in Susanville?" she finally asked, unsure of her feelings about that. Susanville represented a wealth of turbulent memories for her, and her departure from that town just shy of two years ago now had been one of mingled relief and fear. "How come she doesn't still live there, if she wants to go back so badly?"

"She received a very lucrative job offer in Santa Fe after her graduation from college three years ago, and she enjoys her job very much. But lately she has been thinking about her old friends from high school, all of whom she has since lost touch with, and she says she has begun to wonder if her high-school memories are as good as she recalls them. So she wishes to return to that year, the spring of 1973, and find out. She has a chance to move back home, but it would mean a reduction in pay; she is wondering if it would be worth it."

Leslie slanted Roarke a look, wondering if he knew more about her than she thought. If she had a chance later, she was going to ask him. "Huh."

"Is she going to revisit just a weekend, or how do you mean to do it?" Tattoo asked.

"She will spend two days in school with her friends, as if she were a teenager once again," said Roarke. "We have provided the wardrobe that was current in those days, and she will be visiting a hairstylist, so that she will fit in properly."

"Is this real time travel?" Leslie asked, frowning. "I mean, wouldn't she run into herself from back then?"

Roarke said nothing, only cast her a faintly reproving look. "Don't ask too many questions, Leslie," Tattoo advised, favoring his boss with a resigned glance. "You'll never get any answers. Trust me, I know—I've been here more than twenty years. Anyway, the boss gets around that. He always does, you know."

Later, as she tended to do, Leslie remained a quiet background observer while Roarke explained to Amy Olsen how her fantasy would take place and what she needed to do before she began. The young woman accepted this without appearing to consider any of the thorny time-travel questions Leslie had been unable to quit thinking up, and instead asked, "Where do I go in order to go back?"

"When you return, dressed as the high-schooler you were seven years ago, you will go through that door," said Roarke, gesturing at the door beside the stairs that led to what Leslie had early on dubbed the time-travel room. "From there, your fantasy will begin."

When Amy Olsen had departed for her bungalow and her transformation into an early-70s teenager, Leslie looked accusingly at her guardian. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?" Roarke asked, handing Tattoo a stack of envelopes.

"That we moved from Connecticut to California in May 1973," she said, as if issuing him a challenge. "She's going back to a time when I was there with my parents and my sisters. For all I know, she even babysat us."

Roarke chuckled. "Do you have that much trouble recalling babysitters from your childhood?"

"We had hardly any," Leslie said. "My jerk of a father saw to that. We got sat for only once that summer, because Mom actually threatened to leave him if he didn't just once do something for her. So he took it seriously and they went out to eat or something, and the twins and I had a sitter. I can't even remember her now, we never saw her again. But it could've been Amy Olsen."

"Perhaps," Roarke said. "But I expect that's not the issue at stake here, is it?"

"No," Leslie said, relieved just this once that he was so perceptive. "Mr. Roarke, you know the anniversary of…of the fire is only three days from now. You brought Amy Olsen here _this_ weekend, right before that date, on purpose, didn't you?"

Roarke paused, and both he and Tattoo stared at her. "Leslie, I can assure you that the dates are a mere coincidence," Roarke said. "I never set out with such an intention."

She wasn't convinced. "If you say so."

Roarke regarded her with some unreadable look for a couple or three more seconds, then changed the subject. "Suppose you take Tattoo over to town so that these letters can go out. There's a great deal of incoming mail to pick up, and it will take both of you to collect all of it and get it back here."

Sensing the subject was closed, and no more willing to argue with her guardian than she had ever been, she shrugged agreement and got up, taking a car key. But for the rest of that morning, she couldn't get it off her mind. It just seemed too fishy to her.

By the time she went to bed that night, she was consumed. If Amy Olsen, and who knew how many other guests, could go back in time, why couldn't she herself do it too? She supposed the only reason she hadn't had the chance was that she was somehow disqualified, like the employees of a company sponsoring a contest, just because she was Roarke's ward. But he never seemed to have any trouble letting others revisit their pasts. Why not her too? Fair was fair, wasn't it?

The problem was that she knew he wouldn't let her go back—especially not in this case, even though she had plenty of reason to want to. Though the thought of revisiting Susanville made her shudder because of the memories of that fire and its aftermath, the idea of seeing her mother alive, one final time, was far more than she could resist.

Amy Olsen wasn't going to be back in the present day till sometime tomorrow evening, Leslie knew. That meant the window to the past would still be open, as Roarke would put it, and the link through the time-travel room would be active. She lay in bed staring into the darkness of her room, swamped with longing to see her mother and talk to her just one more time. The first anniversary of Shannon Hamilton's death the previous year had left her depressed for several weeks, and so blue on the actual date that nothing either Roarke or Tattoo did could coax her out of it. This year it was as though Roarke had dropped a gift right into her lap, whether he knew it or not. Why shouldn't she take advantage?

Mind made up, she slipped out of bed and changed quickly into jeans and a T-shirt, then picked up her sandals to carry with her till she was actually back in the Susanville of 1973. No need to make a lot of noise on the steps with her shoes. Easing her bedroom door open, she checked the hallway carefully to make certain all the lights were out, then picked her way out of the room and down the stairs, one cautious step at a time.

She made it down the stairs without incident and paused in front of the time-travel-room door, taking a couple of deep breaths and imagining what it'd be like to see her mother alive and well again. A small smile crossed her face, and she reached out and grasped the knob, turning it slowly, easing the door open.

The room within was pitch-black and she could see absolutely nothing; there wasn't any light anywhere. But somewhere, as if in the distance, she thought she heard voices, and carefully closed the door so she could hear them better. _Is this what it's like for Mr. Roarke's guests to travel back in time?_ she wondered. _Do they hear things first, and then see them after, or what? What do I do now so I can see Mom?_ She took a step or two forward (or at least she thought it was forward in this featureless dark), and the voices seemed to grow just a little bit louder. Encouraged, she put out a hand as a guide and began to inch forward.

It happened all at once. Light flooded the room, the distant voices went silent, and Roarke's stern, angry one took over, demanding low, "Precisely what do you think you're doing in here, Leslie Susan Hamilton?"

She'd been with him for a year and a half by now, and she'd thought she was used to him and his ways, but she'd never heard him sound quite that angry. It brought back too many memories of Michael Hamilton. Ever so slowly, she risked a peek over her shoulder at him and instantly cringed at the sight of Roarke's face. "Don't hit me," she begged before she could stop to think.

There was a moment of silence; then Roarke sighed, sounding just a little frustrated. "I thought you knew me better than that, young lady," he scolded, his anger with her only barely held in check, giving his voice a thick edge. "Have you so quickly forgotten my promise to you that I would never raise my hand to you in anger?"

Leslie felt heat flood her from head to toe and tried to huddle into herself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," she mumbled helplessly.

"We'll put that aside for the moment," Roarke said a little brusquely and grasped her arm, tugging her back into the study and dousing the light before closing the door behind her. The light she now saw him by emanated from the upstairs-hallway ceiling fixture. "I repeat, why were you in that room? Aren't you aware that it's active right now?"

"I know it is," Leslie murmured miserably, cursing her own impulsiveness. "But I just couldn't stop myself. I guess I didn't really want to."

"Stop yourself from doing what?" Roarke wanted to know.

She dared to meet his gaze, that yearning for Shannon overtaking her once more. It gleamed through in her plaintive voice. "I wanted to see Mom just one more time."

At that revelation, Roarke's expression shifted from anger to startled realization. "I should have known," he murmured, almost in a whisper, before focusing on her again. "You do realize why that isn't possible, don't you?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "No," she said, and suddenly her earlier thoughts came tumbling out of her, mixed with her thwarted need. "How come it's okay for Amy Olsen to go back, but not me? Am I ineligible because I work for you or live with you or something? You must've known it's almost the anniversary of when Mom and Kristy and Kelly died, and you _had_ to've known I'd notice a guest from Susanville…come on, Mr. Roarke, why can't I see her, just once? Just once!" Her emotions overcame her, making her inarticulate and sending her into a flood of tears, to her disgust.

She felt Roarke gather her into his arms and try to comfort her. "Calm yourself a little, child, please. Why don't we go back up to your room and I'll try to explain it to you." She let him lead her up the steps, trying to curb her sobs and tamp down annoyance at that way Roarke always seemed to have of knowing too much. She'd been so sure he was asleep and that she'd been quiet going down there; how on earth had he managed to catch her before she could escape into the time tunnel, or whatever it was?

In her room, Roarke sat on the bed beside her and waited till she'd gotten enough control over herself to face him. "Leslie, before I explain anything to you, I need to be certain you understand what a risk you were taking. You cannot simply walk into that room when it's in active mode and expect to get the result you want. It's too complicated for me to explain to you in detail, but suffice it to say that traveling through time is not a task to be undertaken casually. For you to have attempted it without expert supervision would have been dangerous in the extreme."

Leslie nodded comprehension, but she wasn't really satisfied. "Sure," she said just to make him think she agreed with him, impatient to get to the real subject. But, again, he saw through her, to her chagrin and annoyance.

"I know you think I'm treating you like a small child who doesn't have the capacity to grasp the concepts we're dealing with here. Perhaps this will help: you know full well I have to make preparations at least a week in advance when I'm dealing with a fantasy such as Ms. Olsen's. Even I, with my powers, can't control the proclivities of temporal journeys without being very sure that the conditions are favorable. The calibrations have to be minutely exact for the venture to succeed. Think of it as a scientific undertaking."

Leslie didn't want to admit that she understood better now, but she did anyway. "Okay, Mr. Roarke, I get the picture," she said through a sigh. "But that still doesn't explain why she can go back and I can't, when we're going to the same place."

"I don't grant these fantasies lightly, Leslie," he said, gently admonishing. "You see the mail I get; you know as well as I do how many letters arrive here asking for the chance to return to some cherished period in a person's life. But I don't extend the privilege to many, and you know that as well. It's not merely the desire to go back—it's the reasons, and they must be good, compelling reasons."

"And mine weren't good enough," she filled in, sulking.

Roarke reached out and bracketed her face with his hands. "Leslie, I know you think I'm being unduly harsh on you, but try to consider my side. When I received Amy Olsen's letter, something in the phrasing she chose alerted me to the fact that she was trying to find out whether she was relying too heavily on nostalgia for the period she had in mind. I pursued the matter with her in correspondence, and she explained that she wanted to be honest with herself, to find out whether her regrets about falling out of touch with her high-school friends stemmed from selective nostalgia and latent dissatisfaction with her current life, or if she had made the correct decision to make her move to Santa Fe. She mentioned that she has been considering returning to Susanville to live, and wants to know if her homesickness is justified or if she's merely gazing through the proverbial rose-colored glasses. Do you see what I'm trying to tell you? She wishes to make an informed decision about her future."

"Whereas my reasons were…what?" Leslie challenged him. He knew so much about her already without her telling him, why not this too?

"Pure grief," said Roarke, "and a desire to see your mother, that and no more. Perhaps I sound as if I'm being unnecessarily hard on you, but think about it. If I allowed you to return once, you'd want to do it again each year, when the anniversary came back. Leaving aside the fact that my time-travel methods are not toys for you to utilize at your whim, you must learn to accept that you will never be able to see nor speak to your mother again, and that you have to continue on with your life."

She gaped at him, feeling betrayed. "Mr. Roarke…" she began, deeply hurt.

"Leslie, you know it's the truth, however unsavory. Think of it." His dark eyes took on a sheen of entreaty. "I understand the temptation, believe me. I understand it all too well. Do you think I'm not tempted myself, to go back to relive my days with Helena?"

She gasped softly, the complete comprehension of his position dawning on her with the force of a lightning bolt. "And you have to learn to get along without her too," she said dully, the old familiar pain filling her again.

"Yes, my child, exactly," Roarke said, very gently. "Sooner or later, everyone suffers a loss such as yours and mine. It's not pretty, but it's an unfortunate fact of life, a reality that we all must eventually deal with. Most in this world will never have even the chance to go back to some special moment in their lives. What would entitle me to take constant and reckless advantage of such an opportunity, just because I have the power to do so? You can't know how difficult it is for me sometimes. The more power one has, the more care one must take in exercising that power. It's true of governments, it's true of keepers of the law, it's true of monarchs—and most of all, it's especially true of me. It takes great discipline to use any power wisely, and there are too many who don't have that discipline nor the desire to gain it. In my position, with my abilities, it's absolutely paramount that I have that discipline, perhaps more than anyone else in the world, since I can do what no human can."

"And I have to develop it too, because I have constant access to it, even if I don't have the same powers you do," Leslie said, looking remorsefully up at him. "I see what you mean now, Mr. Roarke. I'm really sorry…I…I just didn't think, I only wanted to see Mom."

"I know, child, I know," he assured her.

"I guess I'll have to be punished somehow," she said, sighing again. "I've done some dumb things before, but I guess this one was a whopper. So I suppose the punishment's gonna have to be a whopper too."

Roarke laughed. "Oh, perhaps not," he said. "Considering the circumstances, it may be enough that you understand why I must deny you the privilege. Now, if there is ever a truly compelling and urgent reason for you to see your mother again, perhaps something can be arranged. But until then, you must have the strength and self-discipline to carry on with the life you were meant to live. All right?"

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "I hate it, but okay."

He chuckled, releasing her and patting her shoulder. "I believe it's enough that we've reached an understanding. And incidentally, if it seemed earlier that I felt you weren't yet old enough to fully grasp the problems behind arranging time-travel fantasies, I apologize. I'll try not to make that mistake again."

She laughed at his humorous delivery. "That's okay, Mr. Roarke. I guess sometimes I let being fifteen go to my head and I think I know more than I really do. Thanks for taking the time to explain it to me." Roarke smiled at her, arose and departed, wishing her a good night on the way out, and she changed for bed, lying awake in the dark for a long time and mulling over Roarke's words.

§ § § -- November 14, 2005

By the time Leslie finished narrating this tale, Christian looked pensive, all his humor having drained away. "What's wrong, my love?" she asked.

A touch sheepishly, Christian glanced at her and then focused on Roarke. "Perhaps it's a good thing Leslie chose to tell me that story," he remarked, sounding a little wistful. "I had been half-seriously considering asking you, at some point in the future, to allow me to see my mother again. Of course I would have asked that Leslie come with me, so that she could meet her…but having heard that tale, I think I'd better give up that little dream. As you told Leslie, my reasons probably aren't good enough."

Roarke smiled. "I'm sure you're aware that there did in fact come a time when it was necessary for Leslie to see her mother once again. I can hope that such a situation never arises for you, Christian, but be assured that if it ever becomes truly necessary, you will have the same opportunity to see your mother again that Leslie did hers."

Christian studied him a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity, then smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke." Roarke nodded once, and for a moment there was silence; then the prince composed himself with a visible effort. "Well, then, I'm sure you didn't stop committing breaches after that one, my darling."

"Of course not," said Leslie with a touch of amused sarcasm. "There was the first time I ever met Mephistopheles."

"_What?"_ Christian blurted, sitting up straight in horror.

Leslie laughed. "Did you think the time Father and I went with you to fight off him and Count LiSciola was the first time I'd ever confronted him? As a matter of fact, it was my third. The second time was when I had to deal with Michael Hamilton's ghost—the time Father just mentioned when I got to see Mom again, for the one and only time ever. The first time, I was sixteen and just about as green and stupid as I ever was."

"I don't know if I want to hear about that one," Christian said, frowning.

"For better or for worse, my love," Leslie said, grinning. "Father'll help me—this is a long one, so here goes."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- October 12, 1981

Now in eleventh grade, Leslie had more homework than she'd had in previous years, and found herself reduced to the level of spectator too often for her taste. About all she had time for anymore was going through the daily mail and scheduling fantasies for Roarke. She tried not to complain to anyone; but her friends still had the habit of asking her every Monday at lunch about the fantasies over the past weekend, and she could no longer tell them quite as much as she used to.

So on October 12, well into the new school year, Leslie merely shrugged when the other girls asked what kind of fantasies they'd had the previous weekend. "Nothing all that exciting," she said. "Only some woman trying to get over her old boyfriend so she could get on with life with the new one, and a guy who wanted to be a star basketball player so he could impress the girl he had a crush on."

"There could be some real stories in there," Maureen remarked while the other girls looked at each other, "but you managed to make it sound uninteresting. Are you getting bored with what Mr. Roarke does?"

Leslie stared at her. "You must be joking," she said.

"Then why'd you just brush off whatever you did this weekend?" Myeko asked.

Leslie's mouth quirked in sudden exasperation, and she stuck out her lower lip and blew, sending some of her bangs dancing for a moment. "To tell you the truth, we have so much freaking homework this year, I hardly have time for anything else. And I have no real involvement in the fantasies anymore, especially since Mr. Roarke hired Julie last month. All I do now is go through the mail and schedule fantasies."

Her friends glanced at one another. "That's it?" said Lauren.

"Well, she's right," Michiko broke in. "We do have a lot of homework this year. I never seem to see Toki bring any books home with him, so I'm still trying to decide if this is the year it peaks, or if Toki's only being lazy."

"Maybe he's such a whiz at schoolwork, he gets it all done during the day," said Myeko, who still had a crush on Michiko's brother, a year ahead of them in school.

"Trust you to stick up for Toki," Leslie said, making most of the others laugh.

"You think you'll have time to come to my Halloween party this year?' Myeko asked, her good-natured laughter shifting into sudden worry.

"I hope so," Leslie said. "I'll find a way. I just feel so, I don't know…left out."

"Don't you have a study hall you could work in?" Camille wanted to know.

"I wish I did," Leslie admitted, sighing. "All my class periods are full this year. I filled the math requirements last year, but Mr. Roarke thought I should take a foreign language, so I went in for Spanish. I'm not doing very well in it, and I'm afraid of disappointing him, so I try to study more. He's fluent in Spanish, you know."

Frida, who had joined their circle from her first day of school six weeks before, tipped her pretty golden head to one side. "So that is why he has his accent. But he must know so many other languages as well, true?"

Leslie considered this. "Well, I think he knows Latin, and I've seen him read books in some language that doesn't use any alphabet I've ever seen. And when you came that first day and you were so scared you kept speaking Swedish…well, it looked to me as if he understood you. But I really don't know how many languages he knows. Someday I'm going to ask him…when I'm sure he won't use it as a reason to ask me how I'm doing in my Spanish class, that is." The girls laughed.

"You should ask him for help," Lauren told her.

"He probably doesn't have time," Maureen observed.

Leslie nodded. "You got it. I'm pretty much on my own. I wonder if it's too late to switch from Spanish to German?"

"I sit in the German class, and I think you might not like it so well," Frida remarked with a wry smile. "English is easier for me, because most of the words are in the same order. But German places all the verbs at the end of a sentence, and that's not so easy to remember. I have asked Julie for help, and she tells me she knows nothing about words. She can cook and she likes numbers…but words, she is not so good with them."

"Neither are you," Leslie heard Camille grumble, but not loudly enough for Frida to overhear. Leslie scowled at Camille, who didn't seem to notice. Ever since Frida had first arrived, Camille had been downright surly. She still clearly didn't like Maureen, but Leslie had seen that Camille considered Maureen her best friend compared to the way she treated Frida: with barely concealed contempt. Frida, easily bruised after all she'd been through, had been hurt badly enough in the first few days of school that Michiko—normally the peacemaker—had told Camille in no uncertain terms that if Camille didn't at least put on a polite façade, there were going to be serious consequences. Leslie remembered that day with particular clarity; when Michiko had glanced around the table, Lauren, Myeko and Leslie had all promptly agreed with her. So these days, on the surface at least, everyone got along; but Camille tended to create discord where it wasn't warranted, and Leslie knew that sooner or later, something was bound to give.

The girls went on to comparing notes about homework in their various classes, and the subject of fantasies was abandoned for a time. The week slid on, and the topic wasn't raised again till Friday at lunch. "Who's supposed to come this weekend?" Lauren inquired with interest once the seven girls had all bought or unpacked their lunches and started to eat.

Leslie peeled back the aluminum foil on one item and discovered a burrito within. "If I remember right," she said thoughtfully, "there's some guy from New York City who wants to go back to the Old West, and a couple old ladies who used to be Ziegfeld girls fifty-some years ago and want to relive their glory days. There's a revival this weekend and they're hoping they can be part of it. I bet they get just older people in the audience when they put on their performance."

"What is a Ziegfeld girl?" Frida asked, touching off a somewhat involved explanation from Michiko and Myeko, both of whom were in stage-profession classes and knew what they were talking about. While they were occupied, Lauren leaned over the table.

"Think you'll find time to get involved in a fantasy this weekend?" she asked.

Leslie shrugged and took a bite of her burrito. "Beats me," she said. "I guess we'll have to see how it goes. I know one thing…I'm going to knock off my homework all in one session when I get home this afternoon, just so I have time in case Mr. Roarke can find something for me to do." She swallowed and gave a sigh. "I hope he can. I really miss being part of all the fun. There are times when I'd like to find the person who invented homework and give him a good crack in the back of the head."

"Me too," said Camille, joining in Lauren's, Maureen's and Leslie's laughter. "You know, maybe Mr. Roarke'd let you do that if you asked him."

Leslie snickered. "Not unless I manage to pass Spanish," she said, and they laughed some more. It felt good, and Leslie's spirits went up. Surely there was room for her to provide assistance to _someone_ this weekend…

§ § § -- October 17, 1981

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie got a distinctly unpleasant surprise Saturday morning. Out of the plane stepped a dapper man dressed in a natty black suit with a white tie, as if in deliberate and exact reverse of Roarke. He strode down the docking ramp, smiling and nodding at the natives he passed, accepting leis and a drink. Only Roarke recognized him by sight, however. Julie pressed in close to him, standing as she did at his right while Tattoo occupied a small platform (something Roarke had recently had installed just for him) at his left, and Leslie stood to the left of that. "Who is that man, Mr. Roarke?" Julie wanted to know, clutching Roarke's arm.

"He calls himself Mr. Nick," Roarke told them, "but his real name is Mephistopheles." Leslie felt a particular sinking feeling at that; only a year ago, Roarke had met this very entity, and she would never forget the worry and anguish she'd felt over him. Was it going to happen all over again?

"You mean the devil?" Tattoo demanded, recognizing the Greek alias. Julie, who hadn't, looked shocked and horrified.

"Yes," said Roarke, "the Prince of Darkness: the incarnation of evil."

"What's he want here _this_ time?" Leslie asked, scowling. She had thought there would be only the two fantasies this weekend; she would have welcomed a third surely enough, but not when it involved this being!

"My ardent enemy claims to be on a holiday," Roarke said, "but actually he has come to ensnare that which he has always coveted…my immortal soul."

_Of course,_ Leslie thought. _Here we go again, I guess._ Tattoo reacted with horror, as well he might. "Boss, that's terrible! Let me help you!"

Roarke turned to him with an appreciative smile. "Thank you, my friend, but I have a very special assignment for you."

"Why would you let Satan come here?" Julie demanded. To Leslie, she sounded impossibly naïve for such a bright, educated young woman.

"Both of you must realize," Roarke said, speaking to Tattoo and Julie, "that evil exists in all the world. Unfortunately, I have no power to keep it off Fantasy Island." As if to signal an end to the discussion, he returned his attention to the plane, where a fellow with pale, graying hair and large round glasses stepped out of the cabin, talking animatedly and making emphatic hand gestures as punctuation. "Mr. Ned Plummer, a shoe salesman from Brooklyn, New York. He is an ardent admirer and serious student of the Old West, especially that flamboyant and deadly breed of men, the outlaws."

"You mean like Jesse James?" suggested Tattoo.

"Or the Dalton boys!" Julie put in, as if proud of her knowledge.

"Precisely," Roarke said. "But Mr. Plummer has a very special interest in another outlaw of the same period—a certain Kid Corey, who disappeared with the profits of the first million-dollar bank robbery in American history."

"Don't tell me Mr. Plummer wants to go back in time to steal the loot," Tattoo said, frowning in Plummer's direction.

"You mean take it away from Kid Corey?" Julie burst out.

Roarke cast each of them a stern look. "Julie, Tattoo, you both underestimate the depths of Mr. Plummer's scholarly dedication," he chided gently. "His fantasy is indeed to go back to the days of the Old West—but only so that he may be, for one weekend, a member of the outlaw clan, and actually meet in person the legendary Kid Corey himself."

"But boss," Tattoo protested, "if Kid Corey figures it out just like you did—" he gestured at Julie— "Mr. Plummer's gonna get shot!"

"That is a possibility that has not eluded my consideration, Tattoo," Roarke said, with an oddly cheerful look. "And I will alert Mr. Plummer to that very real danger."

"Hope so," Tattoo grumbled, making Leslie giggle for the first time all morning. He turned toward her as if to mention it, but was halted halfway by the sight of two very old ladies being assisted out of the plane cabin. He stared at them for a moment, and finally said, "Boss, there must be some mistake."

"Why?" Roarke asked.

"Because the passenger list said that two showgirls were supposed to arrive," Tattoo said. Leslie laughed this time.

"Oh, come on, even I knew they weren't going to be actual showgirls," she said. "I think you're suffering from selective memory."

That earned her a hearty chuckle from Roarke. "As a matter of fact, they _are_ showgirls," he said. "Those two ladies are Mrs. Joan Michaels and Miss Ruby Rogers, from a senior citizens' retirement home in Lee's Summit, Missouri. Their fantasy is to appear in the Fantasy Island revival of the Ziegfeld girls."

Julie managed to look even more perplexed than Tattoo. "Mr. Roarke, I'm sure they're very nice ladies, but…are they up to it?"

"Oh, it won't be all that difficult," Roarke explained. "You see, those ladies were once Broadway stars of the original Ziegfeld Follies of 1926."

"Ohhhhh, that's nice!" Julie exclaimed. "We're letting them be young again!"

Roarke glanced in the old women's direction, his levity fading. "Unfortunately, it will test their friendship to the limit—possibly destroy it for all time." And it was on that rather foreboding note that the native girl came up with her tray and Roarke took his usual glass from it. "My dear guests—I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome…" He hesitated as his gaze swept across Mephistopheles, and his face slipped into a sudden glare. "…to Fantasy Island!" The man in the black suit raised his glass and took a sip; Roarke saluted Ned Plummer, Joan Michaels and Ruby Rogers, but shifted another glare at Satan. Leslie sighed and wondered dismally if she was going to be in for another night of worrying about her guardian.

‡ ‡ ‡

Amid the loud show music and the frantic, shouted instructions of the director, Roarke, accompanied by Julie and Leslie, brought Joan Michaels and Ruby Rogers to the Fantasy Island Theater, located off the northern edge of Amberville's town square. They passed a large, colorful vintage poster protected in a glass case, and Mrs. Michaels paused to gaze at it. "Ah, the great Florenz Ziegfeld himself," she murmured.

Ruby Rogers gazed toward the stage, where a group of young women were being more or less hassled through a dress rehearsal. "The costumes are lovely," she said.

"Thank you," Roarke replied.

"Might I take a look?" the old lady questioned, and Roarke nodded.

"Certainly," he said. "Julie, will you escort Ms. Rogers to wardrobe?"

"Of course," Julie agreed, offering an arm for Ms. Rogers, who took it with a bright smile and ambled off along with Julie, chatting cheerily. Joan Michaels, who still had hints of once-dark hair among the gray, watched them go.

After a moment she turned to Roarke. "D'you think we're two silly old ladies for wanting this fantasy, Mr. Roarke?"

"No, on the contrary," Roarke replied with a smile. "I think it's charming."

"But why, after all this time?" Leslie asked, unable to stem her curiosity.

Mrs. Michaels smiled reminiscently. "Well, y'see, we want to taste those times again. They were wonderful days, Mr. Roarke. We had the courage to be corny, sentimental, enthusiastic—and we were still confident and proud of ourselves."

As they stood watching, one of the young women near the end of the dancing line stopped where she was and squinted at them for a long moment, moving closer to the stage and staring harder. Then she lit up and jumped off the stage, rushing up to them. "Grandmother, it _is_ you!" she exclaimed happily, hugging the beaming old lady. Leslie watched a little wistfully, and Roarke glanced at her with a slight smile, as if sensing her feelings.

Mrs. Michaels, released, cocked her head and opened her mouth as if to ask a question, but the younger woman beat her to it. "I know…what am I doing here, right? Well, what else? I'm following in your footsteps! I'm trying out for the Ziegfeld Girls revival. I bet that's why you're here too, right?"

Mrs. Michaels floundered momentarily. "Uh…to see it! Right!" She shot Roarke an annoyed look that surprised both him and Leslie. "Well, Billie, this is quite a surprise!"

"It's great!" the girl agreed delightedly, then turned and gestured at a dark-haired man who had been yelling at the dancers for some time. "Oh—I want you to meet Carl Wagner," she said as he approached them. "He's directing the show."

"How do you do," Mrs. Michaels said, sticking out her hand at Wagner, who shook it. "Oh, uh, Mr. Roarke, this talkative young lady here is my granddaughter, Billie Michaels."

Roarke nodded. "How do you do, Miss Michaels. I know Mr. Wagner, of course."

Wagner smiled genially. "Hi, boss, how ya doin'?" He turned to Billie's grandmother. "Billie's told me a lot about you, Mrs. Michaels. Maybe you'll drop by rehearsal later on and give me a few pointers about how it was done in the old days?"

Joan Michaels looked distinctly put out. "The old days," she echoed, and gave Roarke a look that was more annoyed than the first one before turning back to Wagner and saying with the barest politeness, "Of course…I'd love to."

"Great, great," said Wagner cheerfully. "Now I've got things to do, so I'd better go. See you in a minute, honey, okay?" He grinned at Billie.

"Okay," she said, dreamily watching Wagner walk away. "Oh, isn't he wonderful? I know I'm in love, and I think he is too." She giggled brightly before leaning over and planting a kiss on her grandmother's cheek. "I'll see you later." She left, and Joan Michaels lost no time turning to glare at Roarke with one hand on her hip and the other on her cane.

"Mr. Roarke! Just what're you trying to pull off?" she demanded, outraged.

Roarke looked taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

Disgustedly Mrs. Michaels informed him, "We didn't come here to tell anyone how the show was done in the good old days. If that's all there was to it, I'd've stayed home. Now you make us young, or we're going to leave Fantasy Island!" So saying, she shuffled off down the aisle to join Ruby Rogers and Julie backstage.

"Oops," said Leslie. "I think she just lodged a complaint."

Roarke smiled after the old woman with enormous amusement. "All in due time," he said. "Right now, Ned Plummer is awaiting us, and then…" He let the sentence trail off, but Leslie knew what he'd left unsaid. She shivered and followed her guardian out of the theater for the drive back to the main house.

Once there, they found Ned Plummer chatting cheerfully with Tattoo in the study. "Hi, boss, hi, Leslie," Tattoo said. "I guess we're ready to begin."

"Good," Roarke said and shook Plummer's hand. "I commend you for your courage in attempting a trip back to the Old West…but I feel obligated to warn you that this fantasy could be quite dangerous."

"Dangerous! Of course I know it could be dangerous," Plummer replied, clearly with very little concern. "Kid Corey is supposed to have killed twenty-seven men…and he didn't even count foreigners!"

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other with almost identically bemused expressions before Tattoo turned back to Plummer and noted, "If he thinks that you're here to take away the million dollars he stole from the bank, you could be the twenty-eighth."

"Tattoo is right, Mr. Plummer," Roarke concurred. "You must understand, everything in your fantasy will be real—everything. Including guns and bullets."

"That's why I'm here," Plummer insisted. "Look, I'm a shoe salesman from Brooklyn who's never been west of the Hudson. This could be the biggest thing that happens to me!"

"Let's hope it's not the _last_ thing that happens," said Tattoo with some foreboding, earning a quietly amused glance from Roarke. Leslie grinned, watching the byplay.

"Don't worry," Plummer said, sounding a little impatient by now. "I've read everything in the public library about the Old West. I know Kid Corey better than he knew himself! He was a Robin Hood—a ladies' man, an adventurer, a romantic! Look." He fished a folded sheet of blue paper from his back pocket. "I even had a copy made of this 'Wanted' poster of him." He handed it to Roarke, who unfolded it and studied it. "WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE" was plastered across the top; at the bottom, "KID COREY: $1,000 Reward." The photo of the outlaw, it turned out, bore a startling and puzzling resemblance to Plummer himself, as if Kid Corey had been some ancestor of his. Roarke looked up at Plummer with a particularly dubious expression, simultaneously turning the page so that Leslie and Tattoo could see it. They stared at it and then at each other.

"It looks very much like you," Tattoo commented.

"Like identical twins," agreed Leslie. She met Roarke's gaze as he lifted it from Tattoo's, and she shrugged. Smiling ever so slightly, Roarke turned back to their guest.

"Very well, Mr. Plummer," he said, folding the page and handing it back, "you've convinced me. Tattoo, Leslie?" Roarke got up and walked around the desk. "If you'll step this way, please," he said to Plummer, gesturing at the door to the time-travel room.

Inside were accoutrements of the classic Old West: ropes and tackle, a wagon wheel, crates, even a hitching post. In the middle of the room sat a sawhorse outfitted with a saddle and bridle. Plummer glanced around and stopped to stare at the sawhorse while Tattoo shut the door behind Leslie, the last to enter. They turned around in time to see Roarke, watching Plummer, make a gesture that indicated he should get into the saddle.

Plummer stared at him. "You're kidding. A sawhorse?"

"Yes," Roarke said with a smile, "if you'll just sit in the saddle, please."

"Really," snorted Plummer with a grin, but none of the three contradicted Roarke's words, just watched him. Plummer's smile faded and he blurted, "You're serious!"

"Oh, very serious indeed," Roarke told him with a solemn nod.

Plummer tossed his hands in the air. "Okay, here I go." He began to mount the sawhorse, but Roarke stopped him.

"Uh, Mr. Plummer…one usually gets on a horse from the left side," he advised. Tattoo watched with a gradually widening smile; Leslie tried to hide hers, though not very hard. They all watched while Plummer rounded the sawhorse and started to put his right foot in the stirrup. Again Roarke had to stop him. "Uh, Mr. Plummer—"

"Huh?" Plummer said, turning and peering up at Roarke over his shoulder.

"The, uh, left leg," Roarke prompted.

"Of course…" Plummer said with a sheepish grin, clearly trying to save face. "I was just testing." Roarke chuckled and nodded, and Leslie suspected he knew that neither she nor Tattoo believed it for a moment. Plummer swung himself aboard the sawhorse and sat, staring ahead, then glancing at Roarke, who gazed back. Silence held sway for a long moment; then Plummer remarked, "I feel a little foolish up here."

"You want your fantasy to begin, don't you?" Tattoo queried.

"Uh…" Plummer hesitated when a thick white fog with no apparent origin began to fill the room, obscuring Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo. "Mr. Roarke, do you…" He interrupted himself and tried again. "Mr. Roarke? Mr.—Mr. Roarke!"

As if from a near distance, he heard Roarke's voice caution him, "Remember, Mr. Plummer, the bullets will be real."

"Mr. Roarke, I—" The fog cleared with startling suddenness, and Plummer found himself sitting astride a real live horse in the middle of the desert. "Whoooo!" he blurted, faintly disoriented, but delighted all the same. "Hey, this…this is great!"

At which point three men on horseback halted halfway down a trail somewhere not far behind him and began shooting at him. "Come on, horsey, come on," Plummer urged, Roarke's warning about the bullets still fresh in his mind, and galloped away across the desert, with the three gunslingers in hot pursuit. But he was having a blast.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- October 17, 1981

Since Julie was still attending to Ruby Rogers and Joan Michaels and had yet to return to the main house, Roarke rather reluctantly took Leslie with him to see Mephistopheles. As it turned out, the devil was presiding over a noisy party at which people were dancing to sinister-sounding disco music. Standing on a revolving platform in the middle of everything was a statue of a stylized version of Satan, painted in red glitter; Mephistopheles himself actually sat on a throne, smirking at the success of his party.

They both stopped at the entrance, staring around for a moment; Leslie looked nervously up at Roarke, and he nodded silently. They walked over to Mephistopheles' throne and paused some distance away.

"Roarke, you _have_ come to my party…how nice. And you've brought your lovely ward. Can I get you a drink?" Mephistopheles inquired expansively.

"No, thank you," Roarke replied coolly.

"Loosen up, Roarke," snorted Mephistopheles genially. "I'm not here on business; I'm taking a few days off."

"A vacation? You?" Roarke inquired. Mephistopheles nodded.

"Even the devil needs his rest," he said. "I cannot tell you how tiring it is, doing evil day in, day out…"

Roarke studied him with feigned sympathy. "Yes, poor Satan," he mused, heavy on the irony. "Burnout must be an occupational hazard in your profession, yes. Well, I would be delighted to arrange for your early retirement!"

Mephistopheles gazed back wistfully. "Believe me, Roarke, I would love to step down. But what can I do? There is such a demand for my services."

Roarke and Leslie followed his glance to the dancers behind them. "Yes," Roarke said, "but you did not come to Fantasy Island to trap such easy prey, did you?" Their ironic jousting was the object of Leslie's very alert attention; she kept eyeing Mephistopheles, though she was afraid to watch him too long for fear he would focus on her.

Mephistopheles chuckled. "Oh, do you know my mind?" he queried.

"No," Roarke replied with a grin of his own, "but I know your game. It never changes. You are after my immortal soul." His features grew stern, and Leslie glanced at him with some worry in her eyes.

"Yours!?" Mephistopheles retorted as if in disbelief. "Oh, Roarke, what ego! There are other souls here that are worth having too, you know." And before Leslie knew it, she found herself the target of Mephistopheles' calculating stare. She drew in a small sharp gasp, and Roarke realized exactly where his enemy's gaze was focused. He looked at Leslie in alarm, and she glanced back, eyes wide. Mephistopheles came down the steps from the dais on which his throne sat and said to Roarke, "I did warn you that we would meet again, didn't I? This time, I will win."

"I'll bet you don't," Leslie muttered, goaded despite herself. She simply couldn't stand seeing her guardian baited like that.

Mephistopheles overheard, unfortunately, and peered at her with heightened interest. Leslie realized too late that she'd spoken aloud and ducked behind Roarke, face full of apprehension and stomach abruptly stuffed with overexcited butterflies. "Leslie," Roarke said flatly, "it is most unwise to wager with the devil…"

Mephistopheles approached the frightened sixteen-year-old, and she actually let go of Roarke's arm in an attempt to back away from her guardian's enemy. "Why don't you join the party?" Mephistopheles offered with nasty meaning and an equally nasty smirk. "I can show you some real action."

"You get away from me," Leslie blurted at him, her entire body trembling.

Mephistopheles took it unusually well. "Very well," he said and rolled his head back to peer mockingly at Roarke over his shoulder. "We'll talk later…when your keeper is not around." He smirked one more time and then left them.

Leslie turned stunned, terrified eyes on Roarke. "I never meant for him to hear me," she insisted, her voice reed-thin with fright. "Honestly, I didn't."

Roarke gave a deep sigh and shook his head. "You must be very careful, Leslie," he warned her quietly. "I'm afraid that now, you are in grave danger too."

She went pale and he gently prodded her shoulder so that she would accompany him back to the main house. They walked briskly, but Leslie gradually fell behind, wrapped in a cloud of doom and fear, heartily wishing she had never opened her mouth. What in the world had possessed her to actually say such a thing? Of all the crazy mistakes she'd made in her time on Fantasy Island, this one was easily the worst.

Suddenly Roarke's voice penetrated her intense preoccupation. "Leslie, you are not an Islamic wife," he said with somewhat grim humor. "You need not walk ten paces behind me. Come up here beside me, child."

She gave him a haunted look, and he stopped altogether and turned to face her, extending his arm to her. "Aren't you completely fed up with me and my goofs yet?" Leslie finally asked incredulously, unable to accept that he might be anything other than very angry with her.

Roarke's expression grew a bit stern. "Leslie Susan," he said and sighed again, "I don't know who planted the idea in your head that you don't deserve protection or understanding or anything else just for having made a mistake, but I wish you would learn just how wrong that is. Granted, this particular mistake was extremely serious; but if we are very careful and work together, we can beat Mephistopheles. Perhaps, if you watch your step, you need not deal with him at all and I can simply face him myself, directly, without involving you." He studied her pale face and wide eyes. "But whatever happens, you should remember one thing. I made a promise to your mother sixteen years ago to take care of you and raise you to adulthood. As I told her, it was the final fulfillment of her fantasy. To properly carry out that fulfillment, I must protect you from harm—and I will do just that, whatever it takes."

"But…" Leslie began.

"No more excuses, and no more protests," Roarke overrode her. "Before you ask me if I am doing this merely out of a sense of duty, let me disabuse you of that absurd notion here and now. Astounding though you believe it to be, I find you a great joy to have around, and I am every bit as concerned for your safety and well-being as your mother would be, for the same reason. I love you, Leslie, just as your mother did."

Leslie smiled faintly and finally walked into his embrace. "I'll really try to stay out of trouble," she said. "But I have things I have to do, and I was supposed to meet Maureen later to talk about what we could bring to Myeko's Halloween party."

Roarke and Leslie, now each with an arm around the other, resumed their trek back to the main house. "I know it's unrealistic to keep you under lock and key until the weekend is over, or I have faced down Mephistopheles," he said. "But do try to take all possible care. Now, enough of that. It's time to address an elderly lady's complaint and fulfill hers and her friend's fantasy."

They had no sooner settled down at the desk than the foyer door opened and a gray head poked inside. Ruby Rogers cleared her throat and inquired, "May we come in?"

Roarke looked up. "Oh, by all means, please do," he urged with a smile. They shuffled in, both using canes, weighted down by enormous handbags and dressed as if for a blustery autumn day in hats and scarves. Each wore a rope of pearls around her neck. "Well, ladies, are you ready?" he inquired.

"For what?" snapped Ms. Rogers.

"I beg your pardon?" questioned Roarke blankly.

The old lady eyed him skeptically. "Well, Joan hinted you've already botched things up so far," she complained.

Roarke tried to look properly contrite. "Well, I will try to do better," he said, but Leslie saw the twinkle in his dark eyes and knew the crotchety old woman bothered him not at all. In fact, he simply turned and clapped his hands twice. A couple of the native girls brought out an ancient Victrola and set it atop a table beside a flower-filled vase; Leslie got up and drew back the curtain on an easel which displayed a large vintage theater poster of two of the original Ziegfeld girls. Ms. Rogers sat up straight and stared.

"Joanie! Joanie, that's us!" she exclaimed and gazed at the poster wistfully. "Oh, I was so beautiful…"

Mrs. Michaels rolled her eyes while Roarke and Leslie exchanged quick, amused glances. "Yes, Ruby," she said with strained patience, "you've told me before. Mr. Roarke, will we really look like that again?"

"Yes," Roarke assured her, "with certain conditions."

"Well, anything you say," Ms. Rogers said, apparently mollified at sight of her much younger self in the poster, "and we'll do it, whatever it is."

"Very well." Roarke came out from behind the desk and settled in the chair that matched the settee where Ms. Rogers and Mrs. Michaels sat. Leslie took a club chair and turned it around to face the proceedings. "First," Roarke said, "you must never tell anyone, under any conditions, that you are having a fantasy—or it will end immediately. Agreed?" The women nodded eagerly. "Please remember that you will return to your present ages after this weekend, and nothing on earth can prevent that. Nothing."

Mrs. Michaels shrugged philosophically. "Well, half a loaf, or even a few crumbs, are better than nothing," she remarked.

Roarke smiled, lifted an old 78-RPM record off a nearby shelf and blew the dust from it. "Of course, you remember the song that Florenz Ziegfeld made famous in his glorification of American beauty. He called you the most beautiful women in the world." Carefully he set the record onto the turntable and started the aging machine; the music that poured out of the big bronze horn sounded surprisingly clear for such an old record. While the music played, he spoke softly, almost hypnotically, from time to time. "Think back to those times, the early twenties…recapture the mood. Remember how it was…remember how you looked! The greats of the Ziegfeld Follies…" Leslie, watching him, saw him smile, almost as if he were calling back a memory; both the old women were sitting with their eyes closed and dreamy smiles on their faces. Despite herself, she felt herself falling into the mood as well, her eyes drifting shut as she tried to visualize what Roarke described. "Ah, yes, the names were legendary indeed! W.C. Fields, Al Jolson, and Eddie Cantor…George M. Cohan…Will Rogers…music by George Gershwin."

The record spun to an end and Roarke lifted the needle, then went to draw back the red curtains on a mirror that had once reportedly belonged to Helen of Troy. He smiled at sight of Leslie, sitting trancelike, and turned to his guests, clapping his hands once. "Well, ladies, satisfactory?" he inquired.

Leslie's eyes popped open at the sound of his voice and she stared, her jaw sinking in wonder. So did the two old women, at each other—but they were no longer old! Their gray hair had gone glossy brown in Mrs. Michaels' case and bright blonde on Ms. Rogers; the wrinkles had vanished, and their eyes sparkled. In the space of about two minutes, they had shed fifty-five years, and they were overjoyed.

Shrieking in delight, they leaped to their feet, stared at themselves in the mirror and at each other again. "Mr. Roarke, we take it all back—you're wonderful!" exclaimed Mrs. Michaels. Her voice had changed too, from scratchy to clear.

"Look at these legs…not a varicose vein anywhere!" marveled Ms. Rogers. More happy shrieks accompanied this observation, and they both danced around Leslie's chair as she watched with laughing fascination, kicking up their heels all the way. "Well, I certainly don't need my cane! Mr. Roarke, take these," Ruby Rogers blurted, handing Roarke her cane. As if by signal, both women loaded him down with their bulky handbags, canes, hats and scarves.

"Billie's young man wanted to know how it was done in the old days," Mrs. Michaels said with a grin. "Let's go show him!" With that, they pranced out.

Leslie burst out laughing at sight of her guardian all but staggering under the load of odds and ends that they'd left him with. "Need some help?" she offered.

"If you don't mind," said Roarke dryly, and she jumped out of her chair, still giggling, to help relieve him of his burden. They surveyed the items and looked at each other with large grins, slightly overwhelmed.

"I never saw two happier old ladies in my life," Leslie remarked, then reconsidered. "Well…ex-old ladies." Again they both laughed.

‡ ‡ ‡

Tattoo had been assigned to the Plummer fantasy, as it happened, so he was not much in evidence for the rest of that day. Julie, in her turn, was keeping an eye on the elderly women who weren't quite so elderly anymore; so that left Leslie somewhat at loose ends. Roarke, preoccupied with last-minute preparations for the Saturday luau, gave her little more than a quick nod when she told him she was on her way to meet Maureen, and started down a path that led toward Amberville.

About halfway there she noticed a dimming of the sunlight and peered overhead, hoping there wasn't going to be a storm; she pressed on another couple of feet and stopped short. Mephistopheles stood among the trees, head back and breathing deeply. What had happened to Maureen? Half convinced he knew, she demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh!" Mephistopheles turned. "I'm just taking the air. I get so few opportunities on my job." _I just bet,_ Leslie thought, eyeing him warily.

Just then Maureen's voice caught her attention. "Leslie, I hope I'm not late," she called out, and Leslie stared at her, wondering frantically if she could warn her friend away. She glanced back at Mephistopheles just in time to see him make a sort of flicking hand gesture toward Maureen, who let out a scream of fright as she abruptly dropped to her armpits into a pool of quicksand that Leslie knew hadn't been there before.

Instinctively she started for Maureen to try to lend assistance; but her own foot sank into quicksand while she was still out of Maureen's reach. "Help me," Maureen cried, her green eyes wide with panic. "Hurry, Leslie, I'm sinking!"

Mephistopheles watched, leaning against a rock and shaking his head in mock sympathy, as Leslie dropped to her hands and knees and stretched out as far as she could reach, straining to meet the hand Maureen extended toward her. Their grasp fell several inches short, to Leslie's horror.

"A pity," remarked Mephistopheles matter-of-factly. "It looks like she's going to die. It is such a shame—she's such a beautiful young girl."

At her wits' end and furious with the way he played uninterested bystander, she fired at him, "Please, for crying out loud! Help her!"

Mephistopheles launched himself off the rock and stared at her in surprise, then came over and knelt beside her. "You really _do_ want me to help you, don't you?" he exclaimed softly. "Now, you know who I am…" Leslie's eyes filled with tears of frustration and she glanced back the way she had come, as if hoping someone else would happen upon the little scene. But of course, it was only the three of them. "I want to make one thing perfectly clear. You are calling upon the powers of darkness for help, am I correct?"

Leslie looked back at Maureen, now sunk up to her chin, and knew in that moment that she had no other recourse. "Please, help her!" she insisted, glaring at him momentarily. How could he just sit there and watch someone dying?

Mephistopheles smiled and reached out to touch her face as if in comfort; but she flinched away from him, freezing him and erasing the smile. "Very well," he said coolly and casually flicked four fingers upwards. In response a large, sturdy branch dropped to the ground in front of Leslie. Mephistopheles rose and backed away to take in the full scene, while Leslie grabbed the branch and held it out to Maureen. Maureen seized the other end, and Leslie pulled with everything in her until the branch snapped in half. She growled in frustration and tossed it aside; fortunately Maureen was close enough now that they could grasp each other's hands, and Leslie finally managed to tug her out of the quicksand.

"That's it, my dear, you look after her…for now," Mephistopheles said cheerfully. "We'll meet later!" Leslie stared up at him and his smug grin. "We have business to discuss." So saying, he walked off and left them where they were.

Maureen, panting from her exertion and residual fear, peered after him. "Who was that guy?" she demanded. "Someone you know?"

Leslie barely heard her, staring after the departing figure in horrified realization at the predicament she'd managed to get herself into. Maureen yanked at her sleeve. "Hey…Leslie, are you okay?"

She blinked and stared at her friend. "Uh…I…are _you_ all right?"

"Yeah. A little shaky but okay. I really hate quicksand…fell into some once when I was little. I guess I better go home and change." Maureen started to get up, then paused and stared at her. "Leslie, you saved my life, and I'll never forget that. I hope someday I can return the favor." She smiled faintly and then headed back in the direction she had come; the pool of quicksand had magically vanished again, and she was able to walk across that area without mishap, though she didn't seem to notice.

Leslie watched her go, finally closing her eyes against tears of fright. The only person who could save her life now was Roarke.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- October 17, 1981

She almost stumbled into the main house, halting abruptly in the foyer when she saw her guardian standing behind the desk, gazing out the open French shutter doors. She'd felt distinctly lightheaded all the way home, but for the moment she was still in control of herself. She hoped she wasn't getting sick as she came to the desk, past the mirror that still stood in the study. "Mr. Roarke?" she said a little hesitantly.

Roarke turned and studied her with a look of mingled relief and worry. "Oh, Leslie, I'm glad you came…I am very concerned. Please sit down." She took a club chair and he settled into his own desk chair. "I have done battle with the devil on many occasions, and I have always managed to outwit him."

"He's so arrogant," Leslie muttered, aware of strange mental twinges in the back of her head that nothing would dispel. "So sure of himself."

"Perhaps he felt that the law of averages is against me this time," Roarke mused, then studied a small wooden box on the desk in front of him. "In any case," he went on, "I have laid a trap for him."

Leslie tipped forward earnestly in her seat. "Let me help you, please," she said.

Roarke regarded her, as if he saw something she herself wasn't yet aware of, then said, "Yes." He nodded once and arose. "Yes, I want you to keep this safe for me." He picked up the wooden box and handed it to her.

"What's in it?" she asked.

"Something which will sway the odds in our favor," Roarke replied.

Leslie shifted the box in her grip, reaching to open it. "What's in it?"

"No," Roarke said hastily, lifting a hand for emphasis and stopping her where she sat. "That's a secret I cannot reveal to anyone. But whatever you do, you must not open this box. I must have your word on it."

"I promise, of course," Leslie said, mystified, but willing to accede to his wishes.

"Good," said Roarke. "Keep the box with you at all times. I will tell you more later, when I can."

"I'll guard it with my life," Leslie promised him solemnly.

Roarke seemed to relax slightly, and the ghost of a smile came and went in a split second before he said softly, "I know you will." With that he turned and left the house through the open shutters, leaving Leslie standing there with the box.

Once he was gone, the light dimmed again and thunder growled, just as had happened on the path. Leslie looked up automatically; as she did, that lightheaded feeling came back, far stronger this time. A strange compulsion came over her and, out of nowhere, she laughed—in the voice of Mephistopheles, rather than her own. Shocked at the sound, she clapped a hand over her mouth. What if this lightheadedness isn't a sick feeling at all, but… she thought, and suddenly wondered fearfully what she'd see if she looked in the mirror. The moment she pulled back the red curtain that covered it, her suspicion was confirmed: Mephistopheles stared back at her, rather than her own image. She gaped, frozen in terror, too frightened to move.

"That's right, Leslie," Mephistopheles taunted, grinning. "I'm here, inside of you. You belong to me!"

Slowly she felt herself lose control of her own body, and when she tried to cry out for Roarke, her voice refused to obey her. She was indeed under Mephistopheles' control, body and brain alike. On the sharp edge of panic, she retreated into a dark recess of her own mind, telling herself to bide her time. Mephistopheles, in his zeal to do battle with Roarke, would lead her to him sooner or later.

It was a couple of hours before Roarke returned to the main house, where he began checking some of the potted plants on the terrace just outside the shutters. In the midst of this, the sunlight dimmed quite unexpectedly, and he paused, eyes widening for a moment with realization. He heard a footstep behind him and glanced over his shoulder at Leslie emerging from the study, carrying the box he had given her. Something about her expression looked off-kilter, and he frowned, suspicion and certainty blooming within him side by side.

"Here's the box," Leslie said from just behind him. He turned fully to face her and stared at the odd expression on her face: it was an uncharacteristic smug, knowing look, almost taunting.

"Thank you…Leslie," Roarke said, accepting the box and watching a cold look steal across her features. Acting on that strong certainty, he said deliberately, "We will build a fire of juniper wood and burn the contents of the box. It's a vital condition."

"But the brick won't burn," Leslie informed him.

Roarke looked sharply up at her. "No," he said quietly, "but it has confirmed my worst fears. Leslie would not have known about the brick; my ward would never have broken her word and looked inside the box." He put the box on a nearby table and glared narrow-eyed at Leslie, knowing full well it wasn't she who stared mockingly back. "Oh, I know what you have done," he breathed, rage barely leashed.

Even for him, it was disconcerting to hear Mephistopheles' voice emerge from Leslie's mouth. "Not bad, Roarke," the devil conceded. "That brick really had me going! It was a clever ruse."

Roarke shook his head. "It was nothing compared to the convoluted deviousness of your traps," he said. "You are after me—and yet you ensnare Leslie, of all people."

"Oh, come on now, Roarke," Mephistopheles scoffed, obscuring Leslie's form with his own true appearance, "you didn't think I'd be such a fool as to attack you directly! Not with your dear little girl so near at hand, ready to be plucked!"

"She hasn't had an evil thought in all her life," Roarke said softly.

Mephistopheles faded back within Leslie, and once more his voice emerged from between her lips. "All the more reason, Roarke, why I delight in her downfall. Excuse me." The possessed young girl turned and started back into the study, but Roarke lunged forward and caught her arm.

"One moment," he said. "I will talk to Leslie."

"Too late!" Mephistopheles snapped. "Get out of my way!"

Roarke tightened his grip. "Leslie, you must hear me," he insisted urgently. Her eyes narrowed and widened alternately, fear and malice chasing each other by rapid turns across her features, telling Roarke she was still present within her own mind. "Answer me," he coaxed, lifting a hand and sweeping it slowly through the air just in front of her face, without touching her.

Inside herself, Leslie felt some unnamed power sweep aside the mental curtain that had been yanked over her consciousness, and she found herself staring at her guardian through her own eyes. Roarke saw her return in the fear and pleading that gleamed from them. "Help me, please," she begged him. She knew this was her guardian's doing; she alone would never have had the strength even to make this plea if he hadn't forced Mephistopheles aside.

Roarke touched gentle fingertips to her cheeks. "As long as you are alive, Leslie, you are the master of your own soul." As he spoke, encouraging her, he could see the ongoing battle within her for control. "No one, no power, can take from you your choice of heaven or hell. While you breathe, I will help." His gaze grew focused and deliberate, and Leslie concentrated on it as a lifeline. "Join your will to mine…" Their eyes locked and they stood frozen; then Roarke whispered, "Now!"

Leslie applied all the meager force her battered consciousness could muster up, and at the same time she felt something firmly drive away the unwelcome entity that had been crowding her mind. But she as so weak from her previous struggles to regain control that she could no longer stand on her own and began to collapse where she stood. Roarke caught and braced her, supporting her with his considerable strength.

The light grew perceptibly dim again and Mephistopheles popped into view like an apparition, looking somewhat put out. "There was no need to be violent, Roarke," he said, shaking his head, his arms folded over his chest. Roarke turned to stare at him, and he went on, "All you had to do was ask me politely and I would've left her body. You should know it's her soul I'm after. And I _will_ take that, at midnight tomorrow." Leslie stared at him from the shelter of Roarke's arms, her knees threatening to buckle under her again. She had no more strength with which to fight.

"No," she managed, panic giving her a last thread of energy, and turned to her guardian. "Please save me," she begged helplessly. She knew it went without saying; but she was so weak and so close to total panic that she just couldn't think straight.

"Roarke, there is a way," Mephistopheles exclaimed, quickly taking advantage of what he seemed to see as an opening. "Yes, she is mine—unless, of course, you offer me your soul in place of hers." They watched him, Leslie with rising alarm and Roarke in a cold silence. "I think you'll agree, I know you better than you know yourself; and you are not the sort of man to let your young charge down." The words made Leslie wonder if he knew exactly how she had come to be under Roarke's care, and she tried not to think about it, lest he sense her thought and seize on it.

"It's checkmate, Roarke," Mephistopheles said. "At midnight tomorrow, you will agree to serve me. I will _own_ you, Roarke." This he said with particular relish; Roarke simply continued to stare at him. Leslie turned her head away from the sight and buried her face in Roarke's shoulder. _Someday I'll have to ask why Mephistopheles is so eager to get Mr. Roarke's soul,_ she thought, _like it's some kind of trophy._ Of course, they were going to have to find their way out of this predicament first!

‡ ‡ ‡

Supper was actually a rather lively affair, what with Roarke, Tattoo, Julie and Leslie all eating together. Once Mana'olana had served the meal and retreated to the kitchen, Roarke surveyed the dinner party and observed, "Well, this seems like a good time to get a progress report. Tattoo, how is Mr. Plummer getting along?"

"He was pretty disillusioned when I went to check on him," Tattoo remarked with a grin. "He met the real Kid Corey all right, but the Kid had stolen his horse and Mr. Plummer was trying to find him. Last I saw him, he was headed off in the direction I showed him, looking for the Kid. I guess that outlaw showed his true colors right from the start."

Roarke chuckled. "I expected something of the sort to happen."

"He wanted to come back here," Tattoo added, "but I explained about your policy of finishing out a fantasy once it starts. So by the time I have to go back tomorrow, he should have all his questions answered."

"Excellent work, my friend," Roarke said warmly. "Julie?"

"Oh, Ms. Rogers and Mrs. Michaels have already had a couple of knock-down-drag-outs," Julie reported with a wry smile. "Ms. Rogers is in the process of stealing Mrs. Michaels' granddaughter's boyfriend, and right now everybody's pretty unhappy."

"Regretful," Roarke said. "Keep an eye on them, Julie, just to be sure things don't get out of hand. They must work it out for themselves."

Silence held for a few beats; then Tattoo peered at Leslie, who hadn't spoken at all thus far. "Boss, what about Leslie?" he asked curiously.

Roarke drew in a breath and gave Leslie a wry look; she met it for only a moment before letting her head drop and staring at her plate. "Leslie managed to get herself involved with Mephistopheles," he understated dryly.

"_Sacre bleu,_ Leslie, how'd you do that?" Tattoo demanded, horrified.

"I said something stupid in front of him," Leslie told him, self-disgust radiating from her, and explained what had happened early that day. "So of course he decided he was going to win, and since Mr. Roarke said he's beaten him a lot of times before, I figured the odds were good he'd do it again. So I thought, _I bet you don't,_ and I didn't even realize I'd actually said it till he looked right at me and Mr. Roarke gave me this awful stare."

"Really," said Julie, looking outraged. "I'd have gone ahead and said it right out loud!"

Her companions stared at her for a long moment before Roarke cast a supplicating glance in the general direction of the darkening sky. "Then perhaps it's as well you weren't there," he said, shaking his head. "Surely you realize precisely how foolhardy it is to directly challenge Satan! Bad enough that Leslie spoke her thoughts accidentally—I should have found it twice as difficult to help you in the wake of a deliberate statement!"

Julie blushed and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, really, uncle, if you've escaped the devil as often as you claim to have, there's no reason to believe you wouldn't this time."

"Don't ever be too optimistic," Leslie said ironically. "As soon as you are, you get proven wrong. I've learned that one before."

"Your confidence in me is earth-shaking," Roarke said to her with even more irony, and now she blushed as well.

"Well…I mean, if we don't escape him, it'll probably be my fault," Leslie said with a long sigh. "And on top of that, I'm likely to have another nightmare tonight."

" 'Another' one? Do you have them all the time, or what?" Julie asked.

"Later, Julie," Roarke said quietly, and she subsided with some reluctance. "I think you and I had better have a little talk after the meal, Leslie. Which, by the way, is growing cold as we speak, so I suggest we finish it before it goes to waste."

As it turned out, Roarke's talk had to do with an idea he had concocted to keep Leslie from dreaming that night. "If you truly believe you're going to dream again, then it might be prudent to try a potion on you."

"What kind of potion?" Leslie asked.

"It's a bit of a variation on a sleeping pill," Roarke told her. "With the correct ingredient added to it, it suppresses dreams. Since that is our goal, I'll make up one dose for you, if you're willing to try it."

"How does it taste?" Leslie questioned warily.

Roarke chuckled. "There is no taste," he said. "You need have no fear that it will be bitter or taste like cold medicine. What good would a potion do a fantasizer if it couldn't be easily ingested in order to work?"

"True," she agreed with a small smile. "Okay, I'll try some."

Just as Roarke had promised, she slept soundly and dreamlessly that night, allowing her guardian to do the same. The rest did them both good; Leslie felt better on Sunday morning, and by that time Roarke had come up with the germ of an idea which he kept to himself for the time being. To keep Leslie occupied, he sent her off with Julie to see how things were going with their two elderly guests, and started his preparations. Fortunately, Mephistopheles did not make an appearance all day; Roarke imagined he probably felt there was no real need, since they would have the final confrontation that night.

Julie and Leslie returned to the main house around eight-thirty that evening, Julie looking happy and Leslie with a pinched expression. "Mrs. Michael and Ms. Rogers are old ladies again, Mr. Roarke," Julie told him.

In surprise Roarke pulled out his gold pocket watch and examined it carefully. "If memory serves, the Ziegfeld Follies Revival show began only half an hour ago, and is still in progress," he said. "Are you certain, Julie?"

"Yup. Leslie and I were backstage waiting to see them dance their big number, and all of a sudden this stagehand came stumbling out their dressing-room door looking like someone had hit him with a mallet. We had no idea what was wrong with him actually, because we saw them dance in the introductory number and then come backstage to wait for their main part. But then they went into their dressing room and didn't come back out. So when that stagehand gave them their two-minute warning, Ms. Rogers dragged him back inside for a minute and then let him out."

"And then he knocked again and asked if he'd really heard them right—whatever they said—and backed right out again. As soon as he left, out came the two old women," Leslie concluded. "I think they must have told him it was all a fantasy—just the way you told them not to do yesterday."

"I'm sure they had their reasons," Roarke said with a knowing smile.

"I know they saved their friendship," Julie announced with pride. "So that's one fantasy all settled for the weekend."

Reminded, Leslie's expression closed down again and she slumped into a club chair. Roarke glanced at her but turned his attention to Julie for the moment. "I believe that frees you up for the evening," he said. "If you like, you may return home."

"Think I will," Julie agreed. "Thanks, uncle, see you at the plane dock tomorrow morning. Good luck to you and Leslie both."

"Thank you," said Roarke calmly.

"We can use all the good luck we can get," Leslie added direly, and Julie grinned before exiting the house. Just as she left, Tattoo came in, glanced at Roarke and Leslie with a quick wave and started toward the closed door of the time-travel room. He'd made it no farther than down the foyer steps when there came a loud yell from that room and a grunt. Leslie sat up and twisted in her seat to stare; Tattoo, without breaking stride, headed right for the door and opened it, signaling at someone within. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, out came Ned Plummer, rolling his head around his shoulders and rubbing his neck.

"I'll show you to your bungalow, Mr. Plummer," Tattoo said, very much the gracious host, and escorted the Brooklynite out the door. Leslie watched them go and then turned back to Roarke.\

"What happened to him?" she asked.

"I suggest you ask Tattoo when he gets back," Roarke replied with a smile.

The moment Tattoo walked in the door again, she pounced. "What happened?"

"Oh," Tattoo grinned. "It's a long story, but let's see if I can summarize it. Somehow Mr. Plummer got arrested along with Kid Corey, and the Kid got the sheriff to release him from jail because of that 'Wanted' poster that Mr. Plummer was carrying around. Since the picture on it looked just like Mr. Plummer, they let the Kid go free, and Mr. Plummer was sentenced to death by hanging. Some reporter was there making notes for a story, and there was a photographer there too. I just got back from completing the hanging, and that sent Mr. Plummer back here."

"Oh," said Leslie. "Then I guess that's two fantasies taken care of." She sighed deeply.

"Hey," Tattoo said consolingly, coming to her chair and patting her arm. "Don't worry, Leslie. If anyone can get you out of this, it's the boss, for sure."

Roarke looked up then and smiled. "Your confidence is much appreciated, my friend," he said. "Leslie, child, you might take a cue from him."

She simply sighed again, and Tattoo shrugged in Roarke's direction. "I tried," he said.

Roarke chuckled. "So you did. Well, you've earned the evening off, so go ahead and enjoy it. And thank you for your invaluable assistance this weekend."

"Anytime, boss, just say the word," Tattoo said cheerfully. "Good night, and good luck. You'll beat the devil for sure." He waved at Leslie and walked out.

Leslie sank into her own thoughts for a while and Roarke returned to what he had been doing; after quite some time she roused herself and tried to see what he was working on. "What's that, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

Roarke looked up. "I'm just about finished here," he said, rising then and picking up two documents from the desktop. "You need concern yourself only with these, Leslie. Take a good look at them before you do anything else." He handed her the pages, and she pulled her head back a bit in surprise.

"The print's so tiny," she said. "What are they?"

Roarke smiled. "Just read them," he said, and she did so, her eyes widening. It didn't take her long to understand exactly what their purpose was, and she grinned when she got to the bottom and noted Roarke's signature on each one. He handed her a pen, and she arose and stood at the corner of the desk to write her name on the second blank line of both documents. But as she did, the abdominal butterflies reared up again and her elation vanished. Suppose it didn't work…?

She handed the pages back to Roarke and bit her lip nervously; Roarke looked over her signatures, then focused on her. "Your affairs are in order, Leslie?"

"Yes," she said.

Roarke studied her carefully. "You understand everything I have told you?"

"Yes, I understand," she said, not quite able to meet his gaze. Her voice wasn't steady, and Roarke could practically watch her nerves tightening.

"Don't be afraid, Leslie," he said.

She glanced up then, an apology in her eyes, but unsmiling. "I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "I can't help it."

Roarke smiled. "You're stronger than you know," he told her.

She smiled, feeling sheepish. "I won't let you down, Mr. Roarke," she promised. If he was willing to go out on a limb for her, the lease she could do was give it her all.

"The devil isn't infallible, you know," Roarke said. "There are many ways to slip through his traps. I have done it many times."

"But how?" Leslie asked helplessly.

"I have an idea that might work…a scheme in his own design," Roarke said, catching the corner of his lip between his teeth in a thoughtful manner. Then he focused on her again and settled her back into her chair. "But first, we must have the most serious conversation two people can have. It is a question of how much we love and trust each other."

She stared up at him and knew with sudden certainty that her two and a half years of being his ward, her dependence on him and her feelings for him, were going to be called into question and put to the ultimate test.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- October 18, 1981

Leslie followed Roarke along a little-used path into the deeper part of the jungle; mist drifted around the ground and she found herself brushing aside the occasional clinging vine. Both she and Roarke stopped short when the image of a skeleton appeared out of tin air before resolving into Mephistopheles, standing in a red-lit swirl of smoke.

"I'm glad to see that you are punctual," Mephistopheles remarked approvingly; his smoky effects vanished and he stood as they did, with mist curling around their ankles.

"Leslie and I fulfill our legal obligations," replied Roarke. "We'll require the same of you, of course."

Mephistopheles smiled, nodded and approached them. "You may rest assured," he said, "I may despise justice, but I adore the letter of the law."

Roarke's eyebrows shot up. "Oh…I shall remember that," he said with great interest. Leslie glanced at him with a faint smile; something in his tone of voice gave her a little more confidence. Their long, heartfelt discussion was still fresh in her mind, and she sternly reminded herself not to forget it, no matter what happened.

"Now, my contract with Leslie was oral," Mephistopheles said, getting down to business and reaching inside his jacket, "but I have here a certified agreement." Roarke took the document and flipped through the pages, examining it quickly but thoroughly. Mephistopheles watched him expectantly, then frowned as Roarke paused to look more closely at one paragraph. Rolling his eyes, he said, "I do hope you're not going to challenge it."

"No," Roarke said, plainly to his enemy's surprise. "No, I will admit that you have a legal claim against Leslie's soul." Leslie, who had been peering over Roarke's shoulder at the pages, glanced at her guardian but forced herself to hold her tongue.

"You do?" said Mephistopheles.

"Mm-hmm," murmured Roarke calmly.

Mephistopheles peered dubiously at him. "Now that's not like you, Roarke…what's the catch?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, no catch," Roarke said. "I can't stop you from taking what is yours."

"Well, that is marvelous!" exclaimed Mephistopheles, retrieving his document from Roarke. "You've become quite reasonable."

"Thank you," said Roarke.

"No, thank _you." _ The devil focused on the girl and said, "Come along, Leslie."

She surprised herself with her own calm as she promptly turned and followed Mephistopheles away. They had taken no more than a few steps when Roarke said as if just remembering something, "Uh, there _is_ one minor detail." At which Leslie immediately turned back around, a tiny, expectant smile on her features. "One of those little legal technicalities."

Mephistopheles turned halfway and eyed Roarke with new suspicion. "What is that?" he demanded warily.

"I have a document here," announced Roarke, removing from his jacket pocket one of the papers he and Leslie had earlier signed in the main house, "properly drawn, with the usual provisions…but why not see for yourself?" He offered the page to Mephistopheles, who stuffed his own paper back into his jacket and came to Roarke to take a look at the new page. Leslie watched with a strange new confidence that amazed her.

After a long moment Mephistopheles peered up at Roarke. "Leslie has sold you her soul?" he demanded incredulously.

"Yes," Roarke replied.

The devil peered at the page again and then noticed something next to the signatures. "This is dated today," he scoffed, once again certain of his ground. "My claim comes first."

"But mine is signed and notarized," Roarke countered. "We have equally valid claims." Suddenly he chuckled. "I suppose that makes us partners."

Mephistopheles shot him a look that fairly screamed _You must be joking!_ He folded the paper and handed it back to Roarke. "Never."

"I don't like the idea much myself, no," Roarke agreed with amusement, then seemed to have an idea. "Perhaps we should each claim half." He gestured at Leslie, who stood waiting in a newly tense silence. Roarke had warned her that he might be playing at least some of this by ear, but she was still faintly alarmed despite herself.

Mephistopheles whirled around to stare at Leslie as if trying to mentally split her in two, then back to Roarke. "Half a soul?" he said in disbelief.

"Yes," Roarke said with a nod.

"How could I take half a soul? What would I do with half a soul?"

"Well," Roarke said thoughtfully, "you could have it on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; I will take it Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Sundays, we will have to alternate." He smiled as if in concession.

"This is absurd, Roarke," Mephistopheles snapped, glaring at Roarke in disgust and circling him. "Souls cannot check in and out of hell like it is some damned motel."

"Well, if you want to press your claim, you will simply have to make an exception for Leslie, now won't you?" Roarke remarked.

"This is ridiculous!" said Mephistopheles. "You cannot compromise with the devil!"

Roarke stared at him in mock surprise. "I always thought compromise was your specialty," he said. "No?" He glanced at Leslie. "Well, then, it would seem that the only way around our little impasse is for us both to release our claims."

Mephistopheles stared at him. "Oh." Then a smile began to spread across his face and he shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no. I see what you're trying to do. No, it won't work."

"Why?" inquired Roarke, himself amused.

"It won't work," the devil insisted.

Again Roarke asked, "Why?" still smiling. Leslie followed their rapid byplay with a grin of her own; their amusement, however false it might really be, was contagious all the same. For that matter, both Roarke and Mephistopheles were chuckling.

"She may not be able to go with me," Satan said, "but she can't go with you either."

At that point Leslie's levity dissolved like so much salt in water, and she reached out in attempt to get her guardian's attention. "What's that mean, Mr. Roarke?"

Mephistopheles rounded abruptly on her and advanced with a sudden snarl. "It _means_ that you will be eternally damned in limbo between his world and mine."

She stared at the fierce glare he drove at her, then rushed over to Roarke in a panic. "Oh, please…you can't let him do that to me," she pleaded.

"No," Roarke said, perhaps remembering his promise to Shannon Hamilton all those years ago. "No, I cannot allow that." He slipped around Leslie and went to stand before Mephistopheles, his features grim but composed.

"You win, Mephistopheles," he said quietly, watching Satan's eyes widen fractionally. "Relinquish your interest in Leslie…and you may claim my soul."

"Done," Mephistopheles barked instantly, his eyes bright with triumph. "You're mine, Roarke…you're finally mine!"

"Oh no!" cried Leslie, unable to stop herself.

"It's too late for you to talk him out of it," the devil snapped without hesitation; he never took his gaze off Roarke, though he pointed in her direction for emphasis. "I renounce all claims to you." Slowly his left hand dropped to his side; his right lifted in a gesture toward the path. "Roarke?"

Roarke glanced that way and requested emotionlessly, "Will you escort me personally to Hades."

"Oh, I have a much more imaginative future in mind for you," Mephistopheles mused gleefully, orbiting Roarke as he spoke. "You will continue to run Fantasy Island, but under my direction. You will pander to all forms of depraved fantasies—fantasies of evil, fantasies of lust, fantasies of corruption. Your lovely island will become the gateway to hell!" Leslie's face was a study in horror and the fright she couldn't quite control, and signs of extreme distaste were even beginning to crack through Roarke's expressionless veneer. Mephistopheles saw it and crooned, "Oh, Roarke, don't look so gloomy. You will grow to love it! Oh, I can see a great future for you in my service. Why, with you at my side, there is no limit to the depths that we can plumb!" Suddenly he drew himself up short and regarded Roarke almost wistfully. "But all this must wait awhile. I simply cannot resist making you suffer just a little, for all the years of trouble that you've caused me." He again gestured toward the path with one hand. "Come."

Roarke turned to look at a still-queasy Leslie, and Mephistopheles followed his gaze. Leslie swallowed hard and stared anxiously back. Suddenly a bell began to clang in the distance, and she realized that her part in the plan was about to commence.

Roarke and Mephistopheles presented their backs to her and began to walk away. "Wait," Leslie blurted hoarsely, cleared her throat and tried again, with somewhat more composure. "Excuse me?"

The retreating pair stopped and revolved to face her once more; Mephistopheles looked distinctly impatient. "What is it now?" he demanded.

Leslie approached the two men with an unexpected new calm. "Where are you going with my property?" she inquired coolly.

Mephistopheles clucked at her as if she were holding up the proceedings without cause. _"Your_ property?"

Leslie nodded and removed a sheet of paper from one of the two large pockets hidden in the folds of her skirt. "I have a document here," she explained, unfolding it and displaying it at Mephistopheles while Roarke watched. "It _is_ properly signed and notarized."

As if only just reminded, Roarke came to sudden life. "Oh yes! Did I forget to mention that I have already sold my soul to her? Oh, I am terribly sorry." His smile indicated that he wasn't sorry at all.

"Does that make us partners?" Leslie asked innocently, unable to resist.

Mephistopheles stared at them both for a moment while the bell tolled a couple more times, then pointed at Roarke and backed off a couple of steps as though expecting Roarke to follow. "I still own half of you, Roarke…"

"Not even half," Roarke contradicted and glanced overhead, pointing skyward as if at a clock only he could see. Leslie looked up as well, and Mephistopheles inexorably imitated them. The clock ceased chiming, its twelfth strike dying away into the night. "Poor devil," Roarke said, shaking his head, still smiling. "Midnight has come and gone." Mephistopheles stared at the sky, a look of sheer dismay blooming on his face. "I am afraid you failed to claim your half at the appointed time; it's already past midnight. You are too late! The letter of the law…remember?"

It finally hit Mephistopheles that once more, Roarke had outwitted him. "Damn you, Roarke," he snarled, baring his teeth.

"That," replied Roarke, "is precisely what I have been trying to avoid."

The devil's face actually shook with rage, and he howled, _"DAMN YOU!!"_ whipping away from them. Startled, Leslie jumped back behind Roarke, peering wide-eyed over her guardian's shoulder as Mephistopheles metamorphosed into his true form, complete with widow's peak and red horns sprouting from his temples. He stood and glared at a wary Leslie and a calm Roarke before finally relaxing a bit and saying sourly, "I beg your pardon, Roarke. I concede the battle…but our eternal war goes on. You said it yourself, Roarke, one cannot always win. The law of averages is on my side." Leslie compressed her lips but said nothing; Mephistopheles began to retreat much as he had the last time he and Roarke had had a confrontation. "We shall do battle again. My final victory is inevitable!" And with that, he vanished and darkness cloaked Leslie, Roarke and their surroundings for a moment with such totality that they could see literally nothing at all.

Then normal moonlight silvered the clearing again and Leslie ventured out from behind her guardian, staring at him in wonder, trying to convince herself it was finally all over. "You did it!" she breathed, sheer relief in her voice.

Roarke turned to her and sighed, finally relaxing in his own right. "Only because you were willing to trust me unconditionally," he said softly, smiling at her and fingering her chin with fatherly affection. "No greater love has any man—or woman—than that."

She grinned a little sheepishly and stepped into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder. "Let's go home," she suggested, and Roarke nodded, escorting her back along the path toward their own safe haven.

§ § § -- October 19, 1981

Never before in all her life had Leslie actually been happy to see Monday morning arrive. She and Roarke waited at the plane dock as the first car arrived and discharged Billie Michaels and Carl Wagner. Billie headed for the plane, but Wagner hesitated. "Mr. Roarke, there was a certain girl, in the show…her name was Ruby."

"Do you want to find her again?" Leslie asked.

Wagner shook his head. "No, no, I found what I wanted. I just thought I might say goodbye to her, that's all."

Roarke smiled. "Every man has a Ziegfeld girl he remembers in a dream now and then, Mr. Wagner. Fortunately, you have one with whom to share your life." He glanced in the direction of the plane dock where Billie stood waiting.

"Yes," Wagner agreed with a grin, "yes, I have. Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"You're very welcome," Roarke replied, and they shook hands before Wagner hurried off to join Billie. A moment later another car pulled up bearing Joan Michaels and Ruby Rogers; Julie jumped out of the front seat and assisted the elderly women out of the car.

"Was your fantasy satisfactory?" Julie usurped Roarke's line.

"No," admitted Ms. Rogers, "not entirely, my child. There are a few things I can think of that might have gone…differently, shall we say."

Joan Michaels grinned. "What she means is, she lost a lover, but she kept a friend."

"Yes," Ms. Rogers said slyly, "maybe someday I'll figure out if it was all worth it." They all chuckled as the two friends traded teasing eyerolls.

"Thanks for everything, Mr. Roarke. We really had a nice time. The dancing was wonderful," Mrs. Michaels said cheerfully.

"I'm delighted," Roarke responded graciously.

"Come on, Ruby, let's go home." The two women linked arms and stumped along on their canes toward the boarding dock.

Julie sighed, watching them go. "Looks like things didn't turn out too well for them."

"On the contrary, Julie," Roarke countered. "Many persons laud the sacrifices for friendship—so long as they're not called upon to make them. When they find the strength to do so, they enrich themselves with grace and dignity."

Julie smiled thoughtfully, and Leslie glanced overhead. "Isn't it a great day?" she asked suddenly.

"Oh, yes, Leslie, the sort of day that makes one glad to be alive," Roarke agreed. "Have you listened to the birds today?"

"They sound happy too," said Leslie with a nod.

Roarke took a deep breath. "Even the air smells sweeter."

"I know why," Leslie said, while Julie stared at them curiously.

"So do I," Roarke said and gently brushed back Leslie's hair. "Our uninvited guest is gone, and the stench of evil has departed Fantasy Island."

"Will he come back?" Leslie wondered a little nervously.

Roarke looked amused. "Not for a while. We gave him quite a beating, you and I; he won't be in a hurry to take us on again."

"But doesn't it worry you about what he said?" Leslie persisted.

"About the law of averages being on his side?" prompted Roarke.

"It worries me," she said, nodding.

"Oh, Leslie, Leslie, the world is not ruled by chance! The devil can win only if we are willing to play his game." Leslie thought that over and smiled a little at last, and Roarke gave her a quick squeeze around the shoulders.

Another car pulled up with Ned Plummer and Tattoo, who when he hopped out said, "Sorry we're late, boss." He turned and looked teasingly at Plummer. "Watch out—here comes Kid Corey!"

Plummer held up a hand. "I've had it with that, Tattoo," he said.

"Have you indeed, Mr. Plummer?" Roarke inquired.

Plummer eyed him. "Whaddaya mean? Of course! You know I have."

"Oh," Roarke countered, "but surely you understand that it was _you_ who miraculously escaped the gallows and disappeared forever into the mysterious and legendary land of the all-American West. In fact, as well as fantasy, you are Kid Corey!"

Plummer stuck a hand on one hip and peered dubiously at him. "What about the poster?" he asked.

"Mr. Roarke said that was a picture of you," Julie said.

"Oh, without the slightest doubt," Roarke confirmed. "You, I believe, actually met the lady who took the photograph?"

"That's right," Plummer realized, amazed. "Then I _am_ Kid Corey! But what happened to that old son-of-a-gun who was the real Kid Corey?"

"I have it on very reliable authority that he retrieved the million dollars from its hiding place at the camp where you first overtook him, and retired to a South American country. However, it was only a short time before the justice he deserved finally caught up with him," Roarke explained.

Plummer brightened. "Then that means that I _am_ the real Kid Corey!"

Roarke smiled and tipped forward a bit in acknowledgement, and Tattoo spoke up once more. "Watch out, Brooklyn…Kid Corey rides again!" Plummer smirked and swaggered a few steps towards the dock, hitching up an imaginary gun belt, then grinned at Tattoo and started off to the plane for real, leaving his hosts laughing behind him.

The car that would take Leslie to school arrived while the plane was still taxiing out of the lagoon toward the ocean and takeoff, and with goodbyes to her guardian, Julie and Tattoo, she settled back in her seat and contemplated her weekend. It wasn't till lunchtime, however, that she finally heard the usual question. This time it was Frida who asked. "Tell us about the fantasies," she said hopefully. "I saw so little of Julie this weekend."

"You did?" Myeko asked and looked at Leslie. "So does that mean you got involved with a fantasy, then?"

Leslie eyed her ironically. "Oh, I got 'involved' all right," she said dryly. "And about all I can say is, be careful what you wish for, because you could get it." So saying, she took a bite of her lunch, ignoring her friends' perplexed glances and hoping against hope that Maureen especially took awhile to put two and two together!


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- November 14, 2005

Christian slowly shook his head when they'd finished. "I think you were very lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Roarke contradicted him, pretending affrontery. "It was careful planning on my part, plus a healthy dose of explicit trust on Leslie's."

"I have to commend you, my Rose," Christian admitted with an apologetic glance at Roarke. "I'm afraid I would find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to trust anyone as far as that." He hesitated, then amended with a sheepish smile, "Except perhaps you."

"Good save," Leslie teased him, and they all laughed. Then she settled back and slanted a slightly wary look at her father. "There's another one I never told you about."

"Oh? And what would that be?" Roarke inquired.

"Remember the summer I was seventeen and Simon Lightwood-Wynton came here with his mother? When you stuck me with him as his, uh, babysitter?"

Roarke nodded, and Christian said, "I think you told us about this before—if I recall correctly, it was the time Lightwood-Wynton came here looking for a wife, or something like that, and I got stuck repairing his abused laptop all weekend."

Leslie quirked her mouth to one side. "Yeah, well, there was a rather significant part I left out when I told you about it that weekend." She turned to Roarke. "I'm sure you remember that you entrusted me with the key to the little room we set up in their mansion and told me to be sure it never left my sight."

"Yes, I recall very well," Roarke said, looking curious.

"Just to be sure I could do that, I went down to the kitchen and got some string from the staff there, and wore the key around my neck. It was the most foolproof way I could think of not to lose it. But there was one little drawback. Eventually I had to remove it, so I could take a shower, and Simon had the unbelievable gall to sneak into the bathroom while I was showering and steal it from under the towel where I hid it."

"Indeed!" said Roarke, eyes widening. "And how did you get it back?"

"Father—before you start reading me the riot act, keep in mind that Simon arranged it so I had no choice in the matter. Myeko had slept over at the mansion with me the night before because they painted her bedroom that weekend, so I got her to help me out—I figured two was better than one. We had to go down to the room you'd set up for her and see if he was there. The door was unlocked all right, but Simon wasn't in the room, and I realized he must have gone off in time somewhere."

"Wait a moment," Christian interjected. "What kind of fantasy was his mother having, anyway?"

"Remember the weekend you and I played roles in a fantasy that involved going back to the founding of Lilla Jordsö?" Leslie asked, and he nodded. "This one was like that, just to different places." He nodded comprehension, and she turned back to Roarke. "Simon wasn't in the room, as I said, and we both looked around in there, but there was no key. So there wasn't anything else I could do but go back in time and see if he'd tried to hide in one of the places in his mother's fantasy."

Roarke frowned a little in suspicion. "You actually risked it, Leslie?"

"I just told you, I had no choice," Leslie insisted. "And I had a feeling that even if I did find Simon, I'd never get him back by myself. I figured Myeko might come up with some strategy that never would've occurred to me. So we both went back, together."

"Oh, Leslie, I thought you knew better than that," Roarke began to scold.

"Hear me out, Father, please, for fate's sake. We went back to Aztec Mexico first, using that counting method I remembered your telling his mother to use. We saw _her_ all right, but he wasn't there. I had to make a guess at how to get us back." She saw Roarke's expression and rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay, so it wasn't exactly the smartest thing I ever did. I was seventeen and in full-bore panic, okay?" At her side Christian started to laugh, and she took a little comfort in knowing that he, at least, found this amusing. "I just made a semi-educated guess and counted backwards from five to see if it would get us back…"

"You're very fortunate that it worked," Roarke said sharply.

Still laughing, Christian intervened this time. "Mr. Roarke, with all due respect, I think it's a little late to scold now. Obviously Leslie and Myeko both got back just fine and without any visible scars or difficulties in returning, and they dragged that insufferable young milord along with them. Maybe you should give Leslie some credit."

Roarke eyed him with some surprise for a moment, then relented, with a reluctant smile. "You make a good point, Christian. Very well, Leslie, go on."

"Well, after we got back from old Mexico, we tried to figure out where Simon might have gone if it wasn't to join his mother. We talked it out, decided maybe he was in the most violent era, and then couldn't decide what that might be. So I tried Viking Norway and Myeko went back to samurai-era Japan, and neither one of us had any luck. When I got back I suddenly had this idea, and when Myeko came back we went together to the American plains, before it was settled by Europeans following manifest destiny. Sure enough, that's where he'd gone and hidden himself."

"As I recall," Christian said, "he disliked you intensely because you were an American by birth, and I think you mentioned that he hated Americans. Why on earth would he have gone to that time and place?"

"Reverse psychology," Leslie told him with a laugh, "pure and simple. But I managed to figure him out, and Myeko and I got him back, key and all. So you see, Father, it all came out just fine. But I knew you were going to get really upset with me, especially since I took Myeko with me, so I figured that what you didn't know couldn't hurt either one of us."

Roarke just stared at her for a long minute or two, making Christian laugh even harder, and Leslie shrugged, grinning at him. "Well, it didn't."

Roarke exhaled and shook his head. "Very well, Leslie…" But Christian's mirth was contagious in the end, and he began to chuckle too. "As Christian so thoughtfully pointed out, obviously you girls and Simon returned unscathed, so there's little sense in my, uh, 'reading you the riot act' for your little adventure. And I must admit it's true; Simon rather did force you to take the actions you did. I only wish you had contacted me before you made your decision to chase him through time."

"It crossed my mind," Leslie admitted, "but I nixed it almost as fast as I thought of it. I figured you'd just get mad at me for managing to lose the key, after all your warnings to me not to. I didn't want to upset you, particularly because I felt I was walking a fine line after I got so up in arms about being assigned to be Simon's keeper in the first place."

"And so it goes down in history," chortled Christian. "Before I forget, I just recalled a little tale Leslie told me shortly after that aforementioned last bout with Mephistopheles. Something about the school bully trying to hook her on cigarettes."

"Oh yeah," said Leslie, sighing. "I thought I gave you enough detail about that when I told you. Do I have to relive it yet again?"

"It's been several years now since you described it," said Christian, "and you didn't give it nearly as much detail as you've done these other little scrapes you got yourself into over the years. How about fleshing it out for me?"

She sighed and exchanged a rueful glance with Roarke. "Oh well, if you insist…"

§ § § -- January 26, 1983

It was the middle of the school week, and Leslie was still sitting here having lunch all alone, without her friends to talk to. A mumps epidemic had abruptly hit Fantasy Island High School the previous week, brought over by a student from the Coral Island Air Force base, as far as the school nurse and doctors on both islands could tell. Leslie had escaped being felled by the disease, for Roarke had seen to it that she'd had boosters to her immunization shots the week before she had been enrolled in school upon her initial arrival here. Her friends' parents, seeing the spread of the disease and growing alarmed, had tried to do likewise with their daughters, but for all of them it had been too late. One after another Camille, Lauren, Myeko, Michiko, Maureen and Frida had succumbed, till by Friday Leslie had found herself occupying their usual lunch table in solitude, like a queen whose subjects were afraid to get too close. Now it was Wednesday of the second week, and there was still no sign of any of the other girls returning to school just yet.

"Fourth day in a row," she muttered to herself. "Good thing I finally got smart and brought something to read." She plunked a school library book down beside her lunch tray, settled herself, opened the book and began to eat and read simultaneously.

She'd been there no more than ten minutes, tops, when a sudden ponderous weight deposited itself on the seat beside hers. Leslie looked up in bewilderment and found herself face to face with Cori Mukulani, known by everyone as the fattest kid and the shortest temper in school…perhaps on the whole island. Cori had never even looked twice at Leslie since the first day she'd attended school here. What did she want with her now?

"Hi," said Cori, looking friendly, which was extremely unusual for her. "How ya doin'? What're you eating all by yourself for?"

"All my friends are home sick," Leslie said a little warily. She might not have minded this overture if she'd believed Cori really wanted to be friends, but she'd seen too many instances of Cori's volcanic, hair-trigger temper to be certain.

"Yeah…stupid mumps," Cori said. "Half the school's out. Made me kinda mad, y'know? I mean, I wouldn't've minded being out of school, but I guess I'm immune."

Tentatively Leslie smiled, just a little. "I know what you mean," she ventured, willing in spite of herself to be friends if Cori was sincere about it. "But I got boosters when I first moved to this island, and I guess they're still working."

"Bummer," Cori said, nodding. "I keep looking for 'em every day in the mirror, but I never see a damn thing. That's the breaks, I guess."

Leslie wondered how on earth Cori could possibly be able to tell she had mumps, considering how large and round her face already was, but she kept this uncharitable observation to herself. "Yeah, I guess so."

Cori shrugged her massive shoulders as if dismissing the whole subject. "Aw well. So how come you and your buddies don't eat out on the senior patio like the rest of 'em? We waited three whole years for our turn to kick out the underclassmen, and now that we can do it, you and those other girls don't even bother."

Leslie shrugged. "Well, for one thing, it's always so crowded. The patio isn't big enough for the whole senior class, after all. We wanted to sit out there at the beginning of the year, but we were never able to find any empty tables, so we gave up after a week or so and just sat inside like we always do." She grinned. "Keeps the bees and other bugs from dive-bombing our food, anyway."

"Hey, yeah, I never thought about that," remarked Cori and laughed, a strange, hoarse, rusty-sounding laugh, as if she wasn't quite sure how to do it. "Well, geez, now that so many kids are out with swollen faces, there's plenty of room on the senior patio. Wanna come out and eat out there with me? Might be your last chance before graduation."

Surprised, Leslie hazarded a glance out the back windows of the cafeteria and saw that she was right; there were quite a few empty tables. The senior patio abutted the building itself and was thickly cluttered with umbrella-shaded tables; most days, if it wasn't raining, all the tables were full. The epidemic, however, had thinned out the student population enough for them to grab one for themselves. "Well, okay, sure, why not?"

A few minutes later Leslie and Cori had settled down at an empty table, and Leslie found herself listening to Cori attempting small talk. She tried to be polite, nodding and smiling in all the right places, but truth be told, Cori just plain made her uneasy. There was no telling when and whether she'd unknowingly offend Cori and set off that notorious temper of hers, and Leslie wasn't eager to receive a dose; otherwise she might have dreamed up an excuse and made her escape.

After a little while Cori leaned over the table and smiled conspiratorially at Leslie. "Hey, y'know something? I got this great secret—something nobody else in school knows. Y'wanna see it?"

"Your secret?" Leslie said uncertainly.

"Yeah—hell, we're pals now, why not? I'll share it with ya."

There was still a faint alarm bell ringing in the back of Leslie's head somewhere, but Cori looked eager and sincere. _She's probably really lonely, nobody ever wants to be friends with her,_ Leslie reflected. _She doesn't seem all that bad now that I know her a little bit. And anyway, the other girls'll probably be out the rest of the week…what's the harm?_ So she hitched up a shoulder, half-smiled agreement, and said, "Sure, okay."

"Come on," Cori urged. "Leave your stuff here, nobody'll take it. They know me." Leslie had to privately agree with that; Cori had an uncanny way of tracking down anyone who dared touch her belongings and beating them senseless, which had quickly taught any would-be pranksters or thieves to give her possessions a wide berth, whether locked up or not. And she could always keep glancing back and checking the table; they wouldn't be out of its sight. She got up and trailed Cori across the lush green grass, then hesitated when Cori headed for a storage shed used by the landscaping service that mowed the school's lawn twice a month.

"Where're you going?" she asked warily.

"Back here," Cori said. "Come on, it's the only way to keep my secret a secret."

Leslie sighed quietly to herself and reluctantly joined Cori in the cool shade behind the shed. They were shut off here from most of the school noises, and in the distance she could hear the usual sounds of the jungle, not dissimilar to those beyond the rear terrace at the main house. She leaned against the wall of the storage shed to enjoy the shade, then glanced casually at Cori. What she saw made her recoil off the wall and gape at the other girl in pure shock. "What're you doing??"

Cori stared at her in amazement. "You mean you never saw anybody smoke before?"

"But…it's forbidden on school property," protested Leslie, knowing she sounded like a goody-two-shoes, but not much caring at the moment. She let further protests die out when Cori ignored her, extracting a cigarette from the pack she'd taken out of her pocket.

"I started smoking so I'd eat less and lose weight," Cori informed her then, looking up. "My sister's idea. She's lost eight pounds so far and she's even fatter than me, so I figured if it worked for her, it'd work for me too."

Leslie stared at her in disbelief. "You have to be kidding," she managed, still stunned. "That's…just insane. It's nuts, and it's not even true."

Cori only laughed, whipped out a lighter and deftly ignited the end of her cigarette, then stuffed the pack back in her pocket and took a long drag. "Ahhh. Hey, wanna try it?" Before Leslie could think of a graceful refusal, Cori lunged forward and practically shoved the thing in her face. The sudden move she made caused the lit end to flare up and release a thin stream of dense smoke, which caught the unprepared Leslie right in the nostrils. The next thing she knew, she had a lungful of acrid, foul-smelling smoke.

"Oh God," Leslie choked out and started to cough violently. Once she got going, she couldn't seem to stop, barely even long enough to suck in another breath to cough some more. Her head ached fiercely with the force of her coughing and her stomach began to churn, but she just couldn't stop.

"Crap, it was just one lousy puff!" she heard Cori yell disgustedly over her hacking. "You really are some kinda spoiled, pampered wimp, Leslie Hamilton. No wonder, livin' the soft life with Mr. Roarke like you do! Geez, princess, forget I even offered!" She puffed on the cigarette again and blew out the smoke; the smell of it overpowered the last of Leslie's defenses, and she doubled over and vomited with even more force than she'd been coughing. Through the roaring in her ears she heard Cori curse virulently, but it barely registered. She was sure her head was going to burst apart and pieces of her skull fly in all directions.

"That is just disgusting," Cori pronounced in a revolted-sounding voice when Leslie had finally regained a little control over herself. Every bite she'd put in her mouth since that morning had come up in the last two minutes; her head pounded in time with her heartbeat, and her stomach ached a bit. _"God,_ that's repulsive."

"Who's back there?" a voice asked suddenly, and just then a girl Leslie knew only from seeing her every year at Myeko's Halloween parties stepped around the shed and came to a shocked halt. "Whoa! Are you okay, Leslie?"

Leslie stared at the pool of vomit on the ground just to keep from looking at Cori. She was afraid even the least glance at that little death rod in Cori's hand would set her off again. "No," she finally croaked.

"C'mon, DiAngelo, you dumb or something? Who could miss that revolting puddle of slime all over the ground?" Cori sneered at the newcomer.

"Shut up, Cori," the girl snapped. "She probably threw up just from looking at you. Come on, Leslie, I'll take you to the nurse's office. Where're your books and stuff?"

Gratefully Leslie let the other girl lead her back to the senior patio to gather her books. She noticed other kids staring, but avoided meeting their gazes and just let the girl gather her abandoned lunch tray and dispose of it for her. Halfway to the nurse's office, she managed to find the wherewithal to ask, "What's your name?"

"Caitlyn DiAngelo," the girl replied, in an unmistakably Bostonian accent that made Leslie smile despite her misery. "I know you because of Frida Olsson—she's one of my friends. I thought you were miserable, so how come you're smiling?"

"Your accent," said Leslie. "You must be a New Englander."

"Yep, born in Boston," said Caitlyn. "My dad's in the Air Force though, that's why we're here. What happened to you that you got so sick?"

Leslie winced at the memory. "Cori tricked me," she mumbled, wondering if anyone would ever really believe the full story. If her friends ever heard it, they'd never let her live down her gullibility.

Caitlyn glanced back at her again but didn't push the issue, for which Leslie was grateful. "Okay, here we are. You need anything else?"

"No, but thanks a lot for helping me," Leslie said with another wan smile. Caitlyn smiled back this time, wished her luck and left.

The nurse was clearly very surprised to see her; Leslie wasn't sick very often, and this was the first time she'd come to this office for any reason. "Poor thing, what happened?"

"I threw up," said Leslie, taking the path of least resistance.

"Well, how about that. Something besides mumps around here for a change," the nurse said cheerfully. "Here, sit down. Let's see if you can keep a little water down, and then we'll decide what to do after that." She took Leslie's books and purse, set them aside and gestured her into a chair, then handed her a small paper cup a quarter full of water. Leslie sipped at it, but the bland, flat taste of water had never appealed to her, and within five minutes she had bolted into the little lavatory and thrown up again.

The nurse nodded when she came out clutching her stomach. "I'll call Mr. Roarke for you," she said. "Whatever you've got, I hope it goes away soon."

"Me too," mumbled Leslie, sinking into the chair again. She supposed she could wish that Cori would go away by moving off the island somewhere, but that wasn't likely.

Half an hour later Roarke entered the school office, where the nurse had left Leslie after informing the staff that she'd authorized Leslie's early departure. He surveyed her on the way back to the car, but didn't say anything till they were eastbound on the Ring Road. Then he inquired, "So what happened, exactly?"

She was really starting to hate that question. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you," she said, wincing as Roarke drove over a small bump in the pavement.

Roarke chuckled. "I've seen a great deal more in my lifetime than you'd suspect," he said. "I'll believe you as long as it's the truth. Tell me."

Leslie released a heavy sigh and reluctantly explained what had happened. Roarke looked surprised, then amused, then disapproving, then all three at the same time somehow. When she finished, he started to laugh softly, shaking his head. "I see now why you thought I might not believe you. However, I know you well enough that there's no reason for me to think you are lying."

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said, sighing again, this time with relief.

"I do have one question," he said after a moment, driving through the town square as he spoke. "You've mentioned this Cori Mukulani in the past, invariably with distaste and disapproval of her actions. Why would you have fallen for her act today?"

Leslie made a face at herself. "I was just stupid and gullible, that's all there is to it."

"Gullible you may be," Roarke remarked humorously, "but stupid you most certainly are not. As to that gullibility, I think you merely want to see the best in people. You were hoping that perhaps, despite everything, Cori truly did wish to be friends, even though you were wary of her actions."

"I should've listened to my instincts," Leslie grumbled. "It's only…she seemed so nice, and I know it was weird because I'd never seen her act nice before. I didn't even know she knew how. Trouble is, she did such a great job of it, I fell for it like a dropped piano." She stared at him with some alarm as he drove down the lane toward the main house. "Do my friends have to know about this? I mean, they'll tease me for the rest of my life if they find out how dumb I was today."

Roarke grinned. "If you prefer, I certainly won't tell, and I'm sure Tattoo will be glad to keep your secret. Unfortunately, I wouldn't count on Cori."

"That's about what I thought," Leslie muttered, and Roarke laughed again and guided her into the house.

§ § § -- November 14, 2005

"I still wonder if she ever quit smoking," Christian mused once their laughter had died down. "When she had that fantasy of hers to meet Prince Carlono, I wondered about it then as well. One could always hope that she kicked the habit when she discovered that you were right, my Rose—it didn't work."

"All too obviously," Leslie agreed dryly. "Well, I'm not in any hurry to go find out. At least I wasn't stupid enough to let her push me into smoking that blasted cigarette she tried to give me. I might be a fool, but I wasn't _that_ big a fool."

"Oh, but you're my fool," Christian teased, and laughed when she rolled her eyes. "To me, that makes all the difference." Before he could say any more, footsteps from the kitchen interrupted him, and they looked around to see Mariki in the inner foyer.

"Hello, all," she said. "Prince Christian, Miss Leslie, you're being paged. There happen to be a few little ones who're all tired out and looking for their mommy and daddy."

Roarke smiled. "Thank you, Mariki. Why don't you bring them in."

Mariki signaled at someone in the direction of the kitchen, and three of her staff came in, each bearing a child. The triplets wriggled in their sitters' arms as soon as they saw their parents, and the women put them down and watched them run for Christian and Leslie with happy faces. "Mommy," Karina blurted.

"Hi there, sweetie," Leslie said, gathering Karina into her embrace. "Are you and your brother and sister being good for Mariki, hmm?"

"Hi, Mommy," Susanna piped up, climbing onto the loveseat so she could get her share of attention. Tobias, seeing Christian's lap free, promptly clambered onto him, and his father cheerfully hugged him.

"Seems to me they're finally back to their old selves," Christian remarked, watching his son yawn hugely. "And, thankfully, ready for their naps."

Just as he spoke, Susanna tried to follow her twin sister's lead in snuggling up against Leslie with her head on her mother's shoulder. There wasn't quite enough room in Leslie's lap for both girls to relax, though, and Susanna encroached on the space Karina had already claimed, earning herself a whack on the arm from her sister. Susanna began to wail, and Leslie shot her husband a look. "You were saying…?"

Christian grinned. "Susanna, come over here to Daddy."

Susanna peered at her father from the shelter of Leslie's arm, tears still hovering on her eyelashes, and said, "Want Mommy." At the same time, Tobias got a stubborn look and managed to spread himself out all over Christian's lap so there was no room for either of his sisters, announcing loudly, "Mine!"

"No, mine," Leslie countered with a wicked little grin, winking at Christian, and smiled with amused satisfaction when he and Roarke burst into laughter.

* * *

**A/N:** _You might or might not remember that the Caitlyn DiAngelo character appeared as a fairly major player in my story "Impossibilities". Also, in chapter one I referred to the second-season episode "The Hunted/Spending Spree", which first aired February 24, 1979; and in chapter 3 Leslie summarizes the fifth-season episode "Show Me a Hero/Slam Dunk", original airdate October 10, 1981. Happy New Year, all!  
_


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